


Of Blue Scarves

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest ABO Works [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Mary Morstan, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Fluff, France (Country), Lack of Communication, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mycroft Feels, Omega John Watson, Omega Mycroft Holmes, Parentlock, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Slice of Life, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-02-08 03:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21469615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: When Sherlock returns from dismantling Moriarty's network, he catches sight of his brother with a strange child in the park.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (unrequited)
Series: Holmescest ABO Works [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745659
Comments: 347
Kudos: 398





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another ABO story from me. For once I am not sleep-deprived. Hm...

**I.**

It is a blustery cold autumn day when Sherlock first sees them. Blinking his wary eyes blearily, he does a double-take behind the formidable trunk of the English oak he is currently hidden behind. The unmistakable figure of his brother strides down the paved path, slightly hunched over… his leather-clad hand holding… the hand of a little child – a toddler. A little boy. With curls. And a little blue scarf that resembles his own. 

Sherlock scrunches down further – being one with the tree – when Mycroft walks past his hiding spot, but his brother doesn’t notice him at all – his attention completely diverted to the toddler who seems to be intent on jumping into every substantial pile of leaves, and every decent sized puddle. His brother barely flinches when the dubiously dirty water gets onto his woolen trousers. Sherlock’s eyes widen with that; the Mycroft he knew would have never tolerated such an affront to his expensive attire.

Oh.

He watches his brother bend down to pick up the wild child and swing him around in his arms. The boy giggles in glee, while Mycroft looks to and fro, furtively – before kissing the child’s cheek with an unexpected fondness. 

Oh… God, wait… – this is Mycroft’s child!

His jaw drops with shock. Did his brother go and bond with someone, and never mention a single word about it? Granted, he hasn’t seen his brother in four years; the only communications between them had been terse, to-the-point and pertaining only to the missions that Sherlock had undergone. And their last meeting… before Sherlock had left London… He shakes his head, trying not to think about it. A complete loss of control on both their parts. 

But, unfortunately – Sherlock knows that he can never forget. He’s spent the last few years trying. A queasy sensation stirs in his chest, and Sherlock knows that he’s got to change his plans; he had originally been walking the other way along the path as a shortcut to Mycroft’s house, but now he will go straight to Baker Street – he isn’t interested in getting into a brawl with his brother’s Alpha. 

***

After a shower, a pair of scissors to manage the long tangled mess his hair had become and a set of his own clothes, Sherlock feels somewhat back to his old self. But not quite. His shirt and trousers fit loosely on his thinner frame. The wounds on his back send protesting signals of searing pain whenever he moves the wrong way; it had taken him three days to set on fire and escape a nasty little Serbian cell – the last of Moriarty’s immediate network. Two more days had been needed after that to verify that his targets were all deceased. He should be elated now, having accomplished what he had set out to do. But, he doesn’t. He feels out of place – standing here next to the living room window. 

Life had moved on without him. John had clearly left – none of his possessions were no longer present. Mycroft had clearly started a family with an Alpha whose identity Sherlock did not know. And, even London – his beloved city – doesn’t feel quite right either. 

God. Mycroft. He bows his head slightly, letting his forehead rest against the cool pane of glass of the window in front of him. His fingers reach for his new phone, stashed away in his shirt pocket. He ought to text Mycroft, to tell him  _ mission accomplished.  _ He doesn’t. Unbidden, the memories of a few years back floods into his brain. The times where he and Mycroft had spent planning for the Fall. Sharing dinner, discussing ideas, researching and laying down the plans – sometimes late into the night whenever John was out with a female Alpha. Somehow during that period, they had gotten closer, renewing their fraternal bond – or at least that had been what Sherlock had thought before the last possible day. His infamous jump off Bart’s completed, his death official – fuck – he will not think about this now. Not to mention that he had snuck out during the early morning, when Mycroft had fallen asleep – telling himself that leaving now would keep both himself and Mycroft safe. He lets his head fall back upon the glass. A quiet thud. The truth is – he was a coward. 

Still is. 

He laughs then. So what if he had stayed? What would he have said that would have changed things? To make Mycroft promise to wait for him? Ludicrous. Incest isn’t illegal, but it is still socially frowned upon. There are many Alphas infinitely more suitable for Mycroft than him. To reiterate, four years is a bloody long time. Not to mention the grim odds of him not surviving long enough to return. It wouldn’t be reasonable or fair to any omega, let alone his brother.

A despair fills him. He had always thought that he had no sexual urges, or that he wouldn’t have – for the lack of a better term – fallen for anyone… But, here he is – Mr. Rational and Sentiment-is-a-chemical-defect-found-on-the-losing-side, Mr. High-Functioning-Sociopath – pondering the what-have-beens. Sighing, he finally takes out his phone. He closes his eyes again and types. Before he could think further – rather like quickly ripping off a bandaid – he presses send.

_ It’s me. I am back. SH _

Walking over to his room, he looks for his outerwear, like his Belstaff. And he notes that there are clothing missing from his wardrobe. His scarf is gone and so are several other articles of his clothes that he hadn’t bothered to observe earlier when he had grabbed fresh ones for after his shower. Notably all his favourite garments are gone. Damn… who had been plundering his wardrobe…?

His phone chirps.

_ Welcome back, little brother. MH  _

_ I take it that you are at Baker Street? MH _

_ Stay put. I will be there in an hour. MH _

A scream startles him. Almost jumping, he looks around to see Mrs. Hudson brandishing a frying pan menacingly in his direction. 

“A ghost!” She gasps, almost dropping her pan in utmost terror.

“No, Mrs. Hudson – I am back. From the dead.” 

“You terrible, terrible boy! Letting us believe that you were dead! What a nasty joke –” 

“I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson – but it was the only solution…” 

Sherlock spends the next half an hour or so defusing Mrs. Hudson and telling his tale. When he is done, Mrs. Hudson sits in silence for a bit before standing up from the couch and engulfs Sherlock in a big hug. Sherlock winces, which causes Mrs. Hudson to drop back. 

“My dear – you are injured!”

“Tis only a flesh wound, Mrs. Hudson. It wasn’t a lark.”

“No, I take it that it wasn’t a lark. Sherlock… you should have seen John – he mourned for you. He moved out a few months after you were gone, and he met an Alpha and got bonded two years later. I went to the ceremony.”

An awkward silence fills the space. He had been kidding himself, thinking about how John would have excitedly greeted him back at Baker Street. And that they would have continued their adventures together like the good old days… Shaking his head, he changes the topic.

“Did you ever take anything from my room? A lot of my stuff seems to be gone…”

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “I’ve gone up to clean a few times, but I’ve avoided your room. But now I see why your brother continued to pay for your flat. I thought it was because he was in denial. I should have known.” She sighs.

The sound of a door knocker being straightened downstairs causes Sherlock to leap up. “That’s Mycroft.” 

Mrs. Hudson turns to go, “I can bring up some tea.”

“No need. Just business.” Sherlock waves her away.

***

When his brother enters the flat, Sherlock steels himself for the change in scent – for when Alpha and Omega bond, their scents change. But, Mycroft still smells like himself – just as how Sherlock remembered – bergamot, rain and the undercurrent of something citrusy. Damn. His brother is unbonded then. Then how could this be? It was Mycroft that Sherlock had saw at that park. He is certain of it. 

It is also rare for Omegas to carry children to term when they were unbonded; the pregnancy would have been excruciatingly difficult and would have likely ended with a miscarriage or a stillbirth.

Mycroft looks haggard – just like how Sherlock feels internally. His brother leaves his customary umbrella on the coat stand, before settling himself down onto what used to be John’s armchair. God. What Alpha would have gotten Mycroft pregnant and not bonded with him? Looks like Sherlock would have to do an investigation and thrash whoever had been that irresponsible… and he is also shocked that his incredibly responsible brother could have forgotten something as mundane as birth control. 

“I was worried.” Mycroft says simply, starting the conversation. 

And Sherlock could tell that Mycroft had not slept properly in a while. Lost at least a stone since he had seen his brother last… or rather felt… Sherlock quickly slams the door on that train of thought. Mycroft wouldn’t have heard anything about Sherlock’s movements since his attempt to disable the last cell of the network. Oh fuck… his brother had thought that he could have been dead. He could read it from his bloodshot eyes, the slight crookedness in his tie and all the other tells. 

“I even learned Serbian. I was prepared to go look for you – brother mine.” 

“You hate legwork.” Is Sherlock’s very original comment.

Mycroft smiles slightly. Wearily. “I am not incapable of it.”

“My knight in shining armour.” Sherlock smirks, and Mycroft actually chuckles.

“But anyways, little brother – you have been cleared from all charges. The media ran the story the day before. If you want to see the good doctor – he and his Alpha are dining at the Landmark at six tonight. I have a case for you – if you feel up for it…”

“Damn it, Mycroft – who was it?” Sherlock jumps up from his armchair, pacing restlessly – unable to bear it further.

His brother looks alarmed; instead Mycroft schools his features into a semblance of calmness and asks rather levelly, “What ever do you mean?”

“The Alpha! I saw you earlier… in the park…” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft looks distressed. He runs his fingers through his hair. His voice is nervous. “There hasn’t been an Alpha… not since…”

Oh. My. God. Sherlock almost falls over in shock… for the second time. His brain hadn’t even entertained this possibility. It had seemed impossible. But alas, it was merely improbable. The age of the child was right – if they had conceived during that fateful heat. The clothes had gone missing – because Mycroft had needed them during the pregnancy – for a nest. If an Omega couldn’t have their Alpha, the next best thing would have been clothing permeated with the Alpha’s scent. A different kind of despair fills his chest. He turns around, and states quietly. “You never told me.”

“I couldn’t.” Mycroft replies, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t want…” He trails off, but Sherlock could fill in the blanks:  _ to tie you down; to make you worry; to be a burden; for you to talk me out of keeping the child… _ The last one hits hard. His brother had wanted this child. Very much. Which was unfathomable to Sherlock. After all, Mycroft had been the one to preach about the disadvantages of caring.  _ But he never said that he didn’t care.  _ His brain readily informs him. 

“What did Mummy and Father say?” Sherlock finds himself asking. This question seemed safe enough. 

“They don’t know.” Mycroft says. “I never told them. I never visited while I was pregnant, or during the year afterwards. I wouldn’t have been able to bear Mummy’s lectures.”

Sherlock winces. Mummy was a bit of a conservative in that regard. Omegas should be courted, then bonded. Children should be had afterwards.  _ Let’s not even mention the incest... _

“I still wish that you would have told me, brother.” Sherlock sighs deeply. “I would have never… even if –”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s tone is urgent now, interrupting him. “Of course I would have wanted the child. Our child. I…” He then looks away, realizing that he had probably said too much.

Here was the third shock of the day. Sherlock’s fingers itch for the cigarettes located in the grungy coat pocket of his last disguise, but instead he walks over to the fireplace where he used to keep nicotine patches before the Fall. Rolling up his sleeve, he sticks a few of them on. They are probably past their shelf-life. But, whatever. Fuck. He needs time to digest this. To think.

And when he looks back, Mycroft had already left the flat. 


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

“Laurie, please go to sleep.” Mycroft tries to look stern at his son who is busy making a tower from the colourful Lego Duplos in his bed. 

Between the bricks and the quilt is the coat that Sherlock had worn back from Serbia. Mycroft had nicked it when he had fled from Baker Street earlier; he had thrown out the carton of cigarettes that his brother had kept in it and with some misgiving – for the coat had reeked somewhat of tobacco and smoke – he had given it to his boy. His son had looked confused when given the article of clothing, but he had sniffed at it and immediately hugged it to his little body, inhaling the scent of his Alpha parent. Laurie builds onwards, playing the role of the selectively deaf – stopping once in awhile to sniff at Sherlock’s coat. Deriving comfort and helping his body biologically in a way that Mycroft could not provide. 

“Laurence.” Mycroft tries again, his tone sharper. 

“But, dad… not tired…” Laurie tries his best to hide a yawn behind his hand. 

“Yes you are, you big liar. And what did I say about lying?” Mycroft sits down onto the toddler-sized bed.

“Lying is not good.” Laurie then gives a tired Sherlockian smirk. “Unless… I am a good liar and daddy can’t tell!” 

Mycroft suppresses his urge to laugh as his son abandons the toys and crawls into his lap, bringing the coat with him. He sighs when Laurie sniffs at his scent gland. Guilt settles within him as he looks at his son – who miraculously looks more like Sherlock than himself. Who miraculously does not have any known genetic defect (Mycroft had paid an exorbitant sum of money after Laurie had been born premature for a whole genome sequencing to assuage his fears about the genetic risks of incest despite passing the typical screens of pregnancy). And who miraculously survived to be born. Being pregnant and unbonded had quite easily been one of the hardest experiences that Mycroft had to endure – along with fearing for his brother’s safety every day. Unfortunately due to the lack of Alpha influence, Laurie had been a very sick infant with a remarkably poor immune system. Even now, he still manages to catch whatever illness is going around. 

Today had been a good day – Laurie had enough energy to go for a tramp down to the park and to go feed the ducks. Which is where Sherlock had presumably saw them. He sighs; ideally Laurie should be cuddled up with Sherlock, scenting him – making up for all the years that he had gone without his Alpha father. But knowing Sherlock, with his history of irresponsibility and being easily bored – Mycroft does not want Sherlock to simply come into Laurie’s life and disappear whenever he felt like it. Neither does he want Sherlock tied to an obligation that he had no say in. As much as he loved his brother, he would have to put the interests of his child first now. If boundaries are required, then so be it. 

They would have to talk. Mycroft had gone to Baker Street unprepared for such a conversation – so when Sherlock had sprung the topic upon him – he had beat a tactical retreat at the earliest possible moment. 

He kisses his son several times, cradling his dear little body in his arms. 

“Love you, dearest mine.” Mycroft proceeds to tuck his son into the quilt with the coat draped over it, while clearing the bed of all the toys, and saving his son’s Lego creation for tomorrow. From a drawer beneath the bed, he pulls out Sherlock’s blue scarf and Laurie snuggles up with it – as he had done for his entire life. 

***

_ Brother dear, could you at least replace some of the clothing you took? I don’t even have a coat now! SH _

_ New clothes will be delivered tomorrow. Apologies. MH _

Mycroft is tempted to ask if Sherlock had gone to see John. It is a relief in some way, to know that the ex-flatmate is now bonded to an Alpha that is not Sherlock. But, some part of him feels sad that Sherlock had not inquired about his son during the last few hours. The optimistic part of him tells him to cut his brother some slack – Sherlock had only returned to London for barely a day. The news had been rather suddenly sprung on him. He is likely processing it. 

Groaning, he places his face against his palms. God. He had wanted to run into his brother’s arms when he had first entered the Baker Street flat. Wanted to be scented and kissed. A fantasy… they had never been together in that way. As much as he keeps telling himself that ‘ _ that night’ _ when his heat had unexpectedly shown up  in an inconvenient way was a one-off, he still harbours hopes that Sherlock would return his feelings one day. Pathetic. Him being lovesick like this. Sherlock’s absence had not weakened his feelings, but had rather strengthened their intensity – as hard as it was to believe.  _ Absence makes the heart grow fonder. _ He sighs deeply. Longingly.

His phone vibrates.

_ What is his name? SH _

_ Whose name? MH _

_ Don’t be dense, Mycroft. The boy’s name. SH _

_ Laurence Scott. MH _

***

Sherlock stares and stares; his eyes taking in all the details of the two pictures that Mycroft had sent him of… his son. Fuck. Those were two words he had thought would never pertain to him. One of them had been obviously taken today; Laurence looking solemnly at the ducks he was feeding by the pond. Black curls, iridescent eyes, a delicate but elegant facial structure (that seemed to be a mix of both him and Mycroft) and… there was a frailty to the boy too. The next picture was his son sitting in Mycroft’s lap – likely taken at Christmas, judging by the jumper Laurence was wearing. Damn… he grew up without an Alpha… to an unbonded Omega… Mycroft had been stealing his scent-marked clothing, but even Sherlock knows that this is a poor substitute for what the child really needs. Natural selection had not been kind to the offspring of unbonded Omegas. He could see in the lines of his brother’s face the love and worry he has towards… his son. Their son.

_ Should I come over? SH _

_ What for? MH _

_ Mycroft… you are being deliberately evasive. SH _

_ One would think you don’t want me to see the child. SH _

_ We should talk first. MH _

_ Then what the hell are we doing through text? SH _

Lightly tossing his phone onto the other end of the couch, Sherlock gives a dejected sigh. Mycroft doesn’t trust him. That isn’t hard to deduce. Depressing. His brother had likely weighed the pros and cons and decided that Sherlock’s irresponsible ways were more detrimental than having Laurence grow up without an Alpha. But really, what did he deserve? Considering all the shenanigans he had pulled off throughout the years. He winces – the evening had been rather miserable. Some triumphant welcome from the dead... Not only does Mycroft not have faith in him as a potential parent, John hates his guts too. His current black-eye and the ripped open stitches in his back (which he will have to get checked out tomorrow by Mycroft’s personal physician) are an attestation to that. He had expected John’s Alpha to give him more trouble, but no – she had ended up trying her best to help mend their relationship… to no avail. 

Mycroft. He sighs again. Fuck it. He internally curses, standing up to reach for the dusty bottle of fine Glenfiddich left by a grateful client of a long-time ago. Alcohol isn’t his usual vice, but considering that every other poison would be frowned heavily upon by Mycroft – he pours himself a generous amount after quickly rinsing a glass in the sink. He knocks it all back in one go once he is back on the couch, barely even tasting it. His brother would be appalled. 

After the second tumblerful, Sherlock leans back into the couch, somewhat dazed. 

^^

_ The room in the flat was unbelievably warm. Sweat dripped from his forehead. There was something in the air; an enticing aroma ripening  _ –  _ a flower about to bloom. A strange, queer but not at all unpleasant tingly sensation danced through his nerves. Mycroft was standing so close to him. They had been talking. Last words. Farewells. A strange look was on big brother’s face. Sadness. Affection. Sentiment. Longing…? And before Mycroft had leaned forward, his nose delicately brushing against the junction of Sherlock’s left sternocleidomastoid and clavicle, near his scent gland  _ –  _ his inexperienced brain had come up with one word  _ –  _ heat!  _

_ He had sighed while letting Mycroft scent him. It had been ages since he had been scented by anyone. It had felt good… no… fantastic. His brother’s blue eyes were blown in an ‘I-need-you-this-instant’ fashion, and Sherlock had capitulated without a word. Without even being aware of it, his own face was nuzzling against Mycroft’s delectable scent gland, inhaling deep. Their lips had crashed together afterwards in frenzied need, while Mycroft had been stealthily guiding Sherlock towards the practically made, but rather utilitarian bed.  _

_ Clothes had vanished, hands were caressing skin, indecent noises were being made (from who, it really didn’t matter) and somehow, despite never having had done this  _ –  _ Sherlock’s body easily moved to the primal steps of a dance that was as old as mankind. Innate programming. His back had hit the mattress. Hunger. Need. Desire. Reflected back in his brother’s irises  _ –  _ as intense, as fierce as any maelstrom that nature had to offer. But despite the growing need between them, his brother’s touches were always reverent, affectionate and in retrospect  _ –  _ Sherlock knew now that love had been a part of everything his brother had done for him that night. And really, everything Mycroft had done that had come both before and after this transformative day had been from a place of love. If not fraternal… incestuous.  _

_ His brother had cradled his face, before kissing him again  _ –  _ his hands traveling down Sherlock’s chest, his mouth, lips and tongue following close behind  _ –  _ setting his body aflame with something indescribable. And just when Sherlock had thought he had reached the peak of hedonism, his brother’s dripping wet cloaca  _ –  _ so hot, so deliciously tight  _ –  _ sank down onto his achingly hard prick. And it’s not just the feeling, but the way Mycroft looked when his sex had been breached by Sherlock’s Alpha cock  _ –  _ relief, pleasure  _ –  _ as if he had been waiting for this moment for all his life. He fucks himself on Sherlock’s member, and something in him  _ –  _ his inner Alpha  _ –  _ almost crows with delight at the sight of (his?) Omega taking his pleasure.  _

_ The bed creaked, the flesh slapped obscenely and their breaths were getting noisier before growing increasingly stilted as Sherlock felt his knot beginning to engorge while the inevitable looms. Mycroft cried out intelligibly when Sherlock’s knot finally took, and he ejaculated  _ –  _ shooting load after load into his brother’s needy orifice  _ –  _ both of them panting when it was all over. A little death  _ –  _ the French had called it. But to Sherlock, it was shredding apart the known universe, and creating it anew. He had looked into Mycroft’s eyes at some point, and a gleeful smile had graced both sets of lips. The cycle of destruction and creation occurred numerous times that night  _ –  _ before the heat had mercifully dissipated, and both had fallen asleep.  _

_ At dawn, Sherlock had woken up, dressed and with a reluctant sigh  _ –  _ left the flat for Heathrow.  _

^^

Sherlock pushes the Glenfiddich aside. God. He had asked for oblivion, not reminiscence. Sighing again, he picks up his phone.

_ Sherlock… MH _

_ I just… MH _

_ We should talk in person. MH _

_ I will text you a location after your debrief with the MI6 tomorrow. MH _

_ Fine. SH _

_ I will bring the clothes I slept in. SH _

_ Thank you. MH _

_ You are welcome. SH _

He types messages that go unsent.

_ Our son is beautiful. SH _

_ Give me a chance, brother dear. SH _

_ I really wish you had told me. SH _

_ I wish I could have helped you. SH _

_ I do care, you know. SH _

Instead he sends.

_ Night, brother dear. SH _

_ See you tomorrow. SH _


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

His brother is late. Mycroft sighs deeply as he stares at the familiar menu of his favourite tea room, a discreet little restaurant near Baker Street; the place is fancy enough, but not posh enough to be pretentious; therefore, he is unlikely to run into anyone he works with. Avoiding the temptation to fire off an inquiring text, he checks his email, looking at various progress reports. These days, he had scaled back his operations quite a bit – only focusing on the matters of utmost importance in order to keep the British government in some sort of functional order. Anthea is watching Laurie right now. Uncharacteristic nerves (butterflies?) are fluttering within him. 

This is a discussion – Mycroft harshly tells himself – not some date.

“And, just how is our government faring these days?” 

Jerking his head upwards in surprise, Mycroft sees Sherlock casually striding up towards him. His brother looks… good. Well, minus the nasty bruise that hadn’t been there when Mycroft had seen him last. His fist clenches involuntarily underneath the table. The work of one Dr. John Hamish Watson – some physician he is… 

He takes a deep breath to calm himself, before admiring the ensemble that Sherlock had put together from the clothes that had been delivered to Baker Street in the morning – a purple shirt that was borderline pink and a delicious black suit. The clothing had been made with Sherlock’s old measurements, and Mycroft sighs at how loosely they hang on his brother’s frame, despite the amount of muscle Sherlock had gained during the last few years. At some point in the morning, Sherlock had visited his coiffeur; although his locks are barely shorter than they had been the day before – the difference was striking enough.

Sherlock quirks an amused eyebrow at him before finally sitting down. Surprisingly, nothing comes out of his brother’s normally acerbic and sarcastically witty mouth, allowing Mycroft to gaze upon him; to take his fill of the vision of his brother – safe… and gorgeous. The last week had been horrendous… Mycroft had absolutely no idea where and what Sherlock’s status had been. Of course, he had agents monitoring the situation, but when Sherlock had gone to infiltrate the last cell, they had lost their ability to monitor him. And when one day turned into two and then four without a word from or a sighting of his little brother – Mycroft had feared for the worst. He had started his crash-course in Serbian and had begun to set up a rescue mission. Fortunately, Sherlock had been spotted in Belgrade before the mission was launched, so it had been a major relief. So, to see his brother in the flesh is really a sight for sore eyes. The waiter interrupts, and Mycroft quickly orders – knowing that Sherlock would eat whatever he chose. 

“Oh, of course – the clothes.” Sherlock shoves a bag across the table, which Mycroft gratefully takes.

“Thank you, brother mine.”

“It’s really the bare minimum I could do, Mycroft.” The words are quiet. Almost solemn. There is something unfathomable in his little brother’s eyes. “I am not completely ignorant… Mycroft. How is he?”

Mycroft sighs. “In a nutshell, Sherlock, it’s his immune system. He catches almost everything that goes around. And when he isn’t sick, he has noticeably less energy than other children his age.”

Sherlock seems to ponder this. 

“He can scent me.” His brother offers, just as the efficient waiter returns with tiered trays of essential tea goodies. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft can barely get the words out. It isn’t a question of Sherlock not minding, but the degree his brother plans to get involved in Laurie’s life. Scenting is a highly intimate action; not only for the improvement of his (their?) son’s health, but it facilitates attachment. And wouldn’t he know? He had scented Sherlock those few years ago on that fateful night – and how he longs to scent his brother again! To be close to him. Although they are only separated by a small table, it is still too far. 

Something of his reluctance seems to have made itself clear in how he had said his brother’s name. Sherlock actually looks hurt – evidenced by a quick flash in his irises. Before Mycroft could say anything to remedy the situation, Sherlock says softly. “Brother… I am not the same person that left… I just wish you would – nevermind.” He stands up – shaking his head – and turns to leave. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s tone is urgent now. No, he can’t let his brother leave like this. Why does communication between the two of them always have to be so hard? 

His brother stops, turning to face him. “Look in the bag, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft pulls the bag into his lap, and looks through the contents. The clothes that Sherlock had worn yesterday were there. And there are a few added things: the new blue scarf that Mycroft had bought for him (freshly scented), a stuffed cuddly animal (a remarkably fluffy wolf – also permeated with Sherlock’s scent) and there are even books (slightly harder than age-appropriate, but Laurie would be able to go through them). His brother had deliberately shopped for their son – even though Mycroft knows that Sherlock loathed going out to the stores (all those unbearable people!). He looks up to say something, but his brother had already disappeared from the premises. Fuck. Mycroft permits the expletive to slip quietly from his mouth before pulling out his phone to text Sherlock. He then takes the scarf from the bag and indulges in his brother’s scent in this semi-public space – not caring that he looks like the stereotypical lovesick Omega; it is a meager substitute for what he really wants. 

***

_ I am sorry, brother mine. MH  _

Sherlock blinks at the text as he heads back to his flat; he doesn’t even know what to say. It had hurt, to know that his brother had so little trust in him. He had suspected it, but to see it in person had cut deeper than he had originally anticipated. Mycroft had trusted him enough to deal with Moriarty – but clearly not the things that really and truly mattered. Part of it probably has to do with Mycroft’s very maternal Omega instincts. But, Sherlock knows that he had been a rather unpleasant (nasty!) fuck-up in the past especially in regard to his brother, and that really doesn’t help matters now. He knows he can’t give up now; somehow – he would have to convince Mycroft to give him a chance. To show him that he could be a worthy Alpha. 

When he walks up the steps to his flat, someone is already there. Lestrade.

“Case?” He asks hopefully – eager for a temporary distraction.

“You bugger! You damned bloody bastard!” Lestrade exclaims. “Back from the sodding dead, and you didn’t even bother to tell me!”

Sherlock winces when he is engulfed in a tight hug. Lestrade is rather strong for a Beta man. 

“Shite, your eye!” Lestrade notices the rather ugly bruise. “Was that from –” He stops when he sees the expression on Sherlock’s face. “Fuck, you got that when you came back.”

Ah… Lestrade does have some form of deductive power… 

“Let’s not talk about that. Case?” Sherlock says both hastily and evasively, just as Lestrade muses. “John?” 

“No case worth your time. Give the criminals some time to know that you are back in town.” Lestrade replies with a touch of humour, dropping his previous inquiry.

“Just as well.” Sherlock gives a weary sigh, before sitting down at the dining table. 

“Something wrong?” Lestrade asks with concern. “This doesn’t have to do with John – does it? I always thought –”

“That John and I were more than friends?” Sherlock tries to sound amused. It falls flat.

“Yeah. He certainly grieved for you as one. As in –”

“I get the point.” Sherlock interrupts quickly, before Lestrade could start on this mistaken train of thought that he is pining for an unavailable John. “No, it’s not John that’s my main concern at the moment.” Damn, Lestrade has had more experiences with the matters of sentiment; although he knows without asking that Lestrade had finally divorced his wife. But it wouldn’t hurt… to ask. “I… may have gotten an Omega pregnant before I left…”

“Hell!” Lestrade looks intrigued. “Really? Did you bond?”

“No.” Sherlock gives a simple shake of his head. “He had the child.”

At Lestrade’s stern gaze, Sherlock adds. “The child is alive. If I knew… if I had known…” 

“My god… Sherlock – are you telling me that you actually care?”

Sherlock gives a simple nod. “But he doesn’t trust me. I want…” He sighs again. “And the child – my son – is rather ill…”

“I guess… Sherlock, you will have to figure out what you want with this Omega of yours… Like do you wish to bond with him? Do you intend to raise the child with him?”

“I want to.” Sherlock says quietly. “I do care for him.” 

“Did you ever tell him that?” 

“No.” Sherlock glumly rests his chin against the palm of his hand. “It’s complicated.” He then pulls out his phone and flips to the picture of Laurence feeding the ducks.

“Damn, you made a cute child – it’s probably all the Omega’s genes.” Lestrade says with a chuckle. 

“Probably.” Sherlock smiles slightly. “There’s nothing cute about me.”

“Ha.” Lestrade grins good-naturedly. “Well… Sherlock… you will have to be persistent and show that you care. And of course, get the guts to say that. I am needed back down in Scotland Yard, but I will give you a ring if anything worthy comes up.”

“Thanks, George.” Sherlock gives an ironic little wave as Lestrade gathers his coat from the stand. 

Lestrade laughs with exasperation. “Ah, some things never really do change. But, you bastard – I am glad you are back.” 

With that, Lestrade strides out of the flat, while Sherlock turns his attention back to his phone.

_ Come over tonight for dinner. MH _

_ You sure? SH _

_ Yes. MH _

_ I… SH _

_ I do care… you know. SH _

_ I realize that now. MH _

_ Again… I am sorry. MH _

_ We will talk then. MH _

_ Would you like me to bring anything? SH _

_ No, just bring your lovely self. MH _

_ I missed you… brother mine. MH _

_ I missed you too, Mycroft. SH _

_ I only wished that I could have helped. SH _

_ We both had things that we had to do, little brother. MH _

_ I didn’t want to distract you. Nor did I know how you would have reacted. MH _

_ That’s all in the past now, anyways. MH _

_ I know. SH  _

_ We will figure it out. MH _


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

“Dad, dad! Who is coming over?” Laurie asks, before bursting into a dry coughing fit. 

Mycroft sighs, as he meticulously sets the table. Laurie is once again coming down with something. Likely the common cold. Using one hand, he brushes the palm against his son’s forehead – it feels a tad warmer than usual. At most, Laurie is slightly febrile. “Someone special, Laurie.” He replies fondly. “Are you coming down with something again?” 

“No… mm… not sick!” Laurie shakes his head stubbornly, before trying to hide another cough behind his hand. At Mycroft’s serious look, he then admits reluctantly while sniffling. “Maybe a little.” There is a look of disappointment on his son’s face, which goes straight to Mycroft’s heart. He had promised his son that they would go on a little excursion. Maybe to Hever Castle where Anne Boelyn had grown up – outside of London during what is forecasted to be the last nice autumn weekend before the wintry weather settles in, and Laurie knows that it wouldn’t happen if he is sick. His son takes the tissue that Mycroft offers, and uses it to blow his congested nose. “Please, not bed yet…” Laurie begs, and Mycroft says, “No, I think you should stay and meet our guest.” 

“Will I like him?” 

“I hope you will.” 

“What did you make, dad?”

“Greek chicken. Potatoes. Vegetables. Fresh pita. And that squash soup that you like, dearest mine.” Mycroft ruffles his son’s hair fondly. 

“Yum!” Laurie smiles, temporarily forgetting that he is ill. 

There is a familiar knock at the door. Leave it to his brother to never use the doorbell...

“He’s here!” Laurie exclaims, leaping and running towards the entrance and Mycroft follows close behind; his heart is beating quickly with anticipation – even though he tells himself to calm down. This isn’t a date – he scolds himself. This is Sherlock getting involved with his son’s life. And the last thing he wants to do is to scare him off with desperation. 

***

When the door swings open, Sherlock finds himself looking down at the little boy. His son. Laurence. The toddler gazes up at him – his bright inquisitive and iridescent eyes scrutinizing Sherlock’s person. Then the boy sniffs the air, and a look of surprise crosses his face. A child of an Alpha/Omega union would innately recognize the scent of their biological parents – although they may be too young to understand the significance of the familiar scents. 

Instinctively, Sherlock bends down and spreads his arms, and the little boy runs eagerly into them without any hesitation. He picks up the light and almost frail body of his son – and holds his body to his chest. Laurence immediately nuzzles his face against Sherlock’s scent gland – at the junction of his shoulder and neck and inhales deeply. A serene sort of calmness seems to seep into Sherlock’s body.

It feels like a missing piece had been returned to him. A missing piece that he hadn’t even known that existed. Sherlock had been afraid that he wouldn’t feel attached to his son, but clearly, this will not be a problem. An unexpected sense of gratefulness settles within him; that Mycroft had made the necessary sacrifices – his time, his career, his health and so on and so forth to have this little boy who is a perfect mix of himself and his brother. And if he dares to speculate – the ultimate living proof of Mycroft’s own affections and devotion for him. 

He turns his attention to his brother, who is simply standing there – watching the scene, somewhat mesmerized. “He recognizes me.” Sherlock whispers in some sort of awe. 

“Of course he does. You are his sire.” Mycroft offers Sherlock a small smile. “Although, you are too late to prevent his next cold.” 

“It doesn’t happen overnight, brother.” Sherlock informs, having done his research online in the afternoon. It would take months, or even years for Laurence’s body to recover from being deprived of his Alpha-parent. “It will take time for his health to improve… I will come over whenever I can.” 

“Thank you.” 

“No… Mycroft. Thank you.” Sherlock’s voice turns unusually dark with some sort of indescribable and unsuppressable emotion. He then adds what he could not text the other day. “He’s beautiful, brother mine.”

His brother suddenly looks sheepish. He shrugs. “Your genes.”

“Our genes.” Sherlock smiles wryly, before Mycroft steers him toward the living room. 

***

Laurie spends the entire dinner glued to his brother’s lap. Sherlock actually feeds the little boy, with a patience and tenderness that Mycroft had thought was beyond him; bringing little spoonfuls of squash soup to his son’s mouth and wrapping the best chunks of chicken, vegetables and a bit of tangy garlic sauce into pieces of pita for Laurie. It does things to him – Mycroft realizes halfway through eating – with a forkful of succulent chicken in hand. Seeing the Alpha of his dreams showing such paternal behaviour. 

His son recovers his powers of speech sometime during the later half of dinner, inquiring. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No, Laurie – we’ve never met.” Sherlock replies, his voice already tinged with warmth – and a smidge of regret. “But I am your Father.” The words come out somewhat awkwardly, but Mycroft knows that it is a huge step that Sherlock had just taken to acknowledge his son as his own. “Considering dad is already taken…”

“Can I call you papa? Or ‘Lock?” Laurie asks excitedly after quickly deducing what Sherlock had been aiming towards, while Sherlock puts down his fork to sniff at his son’s neck – where his prepubertal scent glands lay deep and dormant within. 

“You can call me whatever you like.” Sherlock offers, while offering him another mouthful of potato.

Laurie shakes his head. “Mm… full. Don’t want.” 

“Alright.” Sherlock puts the fork down. “So am I – unless if there’s dessert.”

“Ice cream!” Laurie cries out with excitement when Mycroft gets up to grab a dish with several scoops of homemade cookies-and-cream flavoured ice cream from the freezer. Despite Laurie’s illness, Sherlock shares the treat with his son, not caring about the swapping of bugs. And, he couldn’t help but stare when Sherlock takes a napkin and carefully cleans up Laurie’s ice cream stained face afterwards. 

Damn. He’s definitely underestimated his brother. 

***

“Little brother – I just wanted to apologize again…” Mycroft starts saying before Sherlock cuts in, “No, brother, don’t apologize, I know that I don’t exactly have the best track record… of being responsible.” 

They are both in Mycroft’s comfortable and homey living room. Laurie had been tucked into bed, after Mycroft had given him a bath, and Sherlock had read one of his presents to Laurie (a silly book titled  _ Dragons Love Tacos _ ) with the appropriate voices and dramatic flair. Before they had left the room, Mycroft had given Laurie a kiss and a ‘goodnight, dearest mine’ and Sherlock had provided a more hesitant kiss onto Laurie’s cheek and whispered ‘night, night, my little dragon’ – which had made Laurie laugh sleepily after giving Sherlock a tired dragony growl in reply. He had been astonished to find that his son had been sleeping with his old scarf for his entire life.

They both look at each other, unsure about how to approach whatever is between them. Sherlock feels slightly out of his depth, and he has the odd intuitive idea that Mycroft is in the same boat. Sentiment is not their forte. Why is this so bloody hard? 

Why does this feel so damned awkward?

Similar to what he had done earlier in the day with Laurie, Sherlock steps forward slightly, and slowly – but hesitantly, he spreads his arms out. There is trepidation, for despite Sherlock’s almost certainty that Mycroft reciprocates his feelings – he doesn’t want to look like a fool. 

His brother’s eyes widen, and somehow… the distance between them closes. A hug – Sherlock’s mind registers – when Mycroft’s arms gently snake around his waist while burying his face against Sherlock’s neck, near where his scent gland is located. Mycroft nuzzles at the gland, causing the release of both pheromones and some pleasurable chemistry; the former into the air, the latter into Sherlock’s bloodstream. God. It feels so good. Sherlock’s own hands are wrapped tightly around his brother’s torso, holding him close. His fingers could read how the years that he had been gone had treated Mycroft. He isn’t the only one that had suffered physically. And it went beyond the weight loss. 

The sentiment that threatens to overtake him is too much, and Sherlock steps away, breaking the embrace – feeling something suspiciously wet escape his tear duct and slide slowly down his cheek. His brother looks alarmed, but Sherlock merely says – his voice despairing. “Mycroft…”

“Don’t, little brother.” Mycroft whispers. 

“I would have came back, if I had known.” 

“That’s precisely why I didn’t tell you.” 

“I would have given you my bondbite… it would have made your life so much easier…”

There is a stunned silence from his brother at Sherlock’s frank admission. The silence lingers, before Mycroft gives a quick shake of his head. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t… Sherlock…” An actual tear streaks down his brother’s cheek. God. Sentiment has reduced them to this. Another moment goes by, before his brother continues – in almost a rush. A confession of sorts. A breached dam. “It wasn’t the pregnancy that was the hardest part, Sherlock… it was… you. I worried. Constantly. For your safety, for your sanity… for your life. I missed you. Oh god… how I missed you. Having your bite would have made it worse, especially if any of the complications we had discussed ever came about. I was already too connected to you – little brother, even before that last night. If not physically… emotionally. You had no idea – how I felt when I discovered that I was pregnant. Shocked. Alarmed, for I had only realized then that I had missed my appointment for my birth control shot in the insanity of dealing with Moriarty. And then – I made the most selfish and most would say unwise decision. For, I realized that this was my way of always having a part of you – with me… in the event that…”  _ you never come back…  _ His brother cannot finish the sentence, but Sherlock knows by seeing the answer in his blue eyes. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock is speechless apart from being able to utter his brother’s name. This is probably the most irrational thing Mycroft had ever done.. And will probably ever do. 

“The idea of abortion appalled me. It filled me with a sense of wrongness. I couldn’t even think about it without feeling nauseous – and this was before I had that nasty bout of hyperemesis gravidarum. I refused. My physician and I discussed the topic to exhaustion. The risks of incest; of us sharing fifty percent of our genetic material. Calculating the odds of the likelihood that two nastily similar recessive genes would come together. A very high-risk pregnancy is what he called it, as I wouldn’t have the protection of your bondbite, Sherlock... I didn’t go home that night, little brother – I went to Baker Street and slept in your bed.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock repeats himself… he hardly recognizes his voice – so distorted by the intensity of the emotions that he feels. “Brother…” He tries again. “Come.” He whispers, as he sits down on the couch. 

His brother obeys and sits down next to him, once again burying his face into Sherlock’s neck. Daringly, Sherlock bends his neck slightly, and brushes the lightest of kisses against his brother’s forehead. Looking upwards, Mycroft shows Sherlock a small smile that graces his lips. Sherlock cannot help but grin, and marvel at the depths of his brother’s emotions – the sentiment, the irrationally unconditional sentiment that Mycroft has for him. He had been stupid to think that Mycroft would have bonded himself to another Alpha. 

God… how fucking stupid, indeed!

“I missed you too.” Sherlock admits – somehow, having Mycroft unburden himself had cleared the awkwardness between them. “I thought about you while I was gone. I think about that night. Constantly. I dream, big brother, that I would have stayed until you had woken up. That I would have told you to wait for me. That I would come back.”

“I think you made the right decision, little brother – to leave as you did. Saying goodbye would have been too hard.” Mycroft replies, both quietly and thoughtfully. He leans forward to affectionately kiss Sherlock’s cheek, while Sherlock takes the chance to scent his brother for the first time since  _ that _ night, nuzzling into the scent gland buried within Mycroft’s delectable neck. The minutes pass as they exchange these touches and kisses while taking turns scenting each other, laying claim to each other in this rather simple way – before Mycroft asks him, rather shyly. “Stay the night?”

The answer comes immediately from Sherlock. “Of course.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

This must be a dream… Mycroft inhales deep; the warm air of his breath brushing against the deliciously pale skin of his brother’s elegant neck. His arms are draped loosely around Sherlock’s freshly showered nightshirt-clad torso. Sherlock had winced in pain earlier when Mycroft had used more force. He didn’t dare ask. Things had happened in Serbia and in other places around the world outside of Mycroft’s watchful eyes that had been far from pleasant. He had noticed the hardened look in his brother’s eyes that had reminded Mycroft of some of the seasoned agents that currently work under the MI6. 

There is something so tentative… still fragile about this situation – their situation. As if the present are wisps – rather fragments of those fantasies that Mycroft had occasionally allowed himself to indulge in when the nights had felt particularly lonely. If he grasps too hard – Mycroft feels that everything might just disappear in a cruel instant.

His brother is snoring quietly now – having fallen asleep within minutes of hitting the bed. It’s almost alien – to see his brother so still: in repose. 

The last time they had shared the bed, there had been a frenetic energy. Heat. Longing. Desire. 

^^

_ He had been mortified. Just as Sherlock had been about to leave, his Omega biology had made itself known. That familiar ache in his loins. The need for something, anything, remotely phallic to penetrate him. The warmth, fever and sweat. It had been ages since Mycroft last had an Alpha to satisfy the demands of his estrus. In the presence of a younger, virile Alpha – the burning agony had been worse. Not to mention, that this was the Alpha that Mycroft had desired… for a long time now. The duration of this longing had become immaterial now; it is simply a fact of his life, of his existence. And now, nature was about to make him a fool in front of the most important person in Mycroft’s life.  _

_ They were standing too close to begin with. Mycroft’s heart had been dreading this particular moment; where Sherlock would finally leave him to take down the remnants of Moriarty’s legacy. There were no guarantees that his brother would come back alive. The things that Mycroft wanted to say rose to his lips – but he doesn't bring them to life because his brother, the rational man who had no use for sentiment, would have probably mocked him for expressing such words, such emotions.  _

_ He knew the moment Sherlock had noticed. There was a deer-in-the-headlights look about his brother; his inexperienced little brother had absolutely no idea what to do about this natural situation. A virgin. Before Mycroft was even aware of what he was doing, his nose was delicately caressing the scent gland embedded within the junction of Sherlock’s collarbone and neck. Scenting him. His brother stayed unnaturally still, before finally Mycroft hears a slow sigh – of surprised pleasure, rather than annoyed exasperation – escape from Sherlock. And then his brother was scenting him, rubbing his own nose against Mycroft’s scent gland. He wasn’t sure who initiated it, but there were kisses; sloppy, passionate, frantic – filled with that desperate longing that Mycroft had felt for too damned long. He remembered pushing his brother onto the bed, that strange look in Sherlock’s eyes before he proceeded to use every bit of carnal knowledge to take him apart. To worship the man that he had loved for so long. And the amazing relief that he felt when he finally speared himself onto Sherlock’s Alpha cock. The indescribable feeling of being knotted by his dearest the first time. _

_ The rest of the night flew by in a blur. Later, he would replay the moments his heat-crazed brain remembered. Sherlock learned quickly, and was soon reciprocating what Mycroft had done to him earlier in the night. And when he awoke with the luminous sun streaming through the windows, the curtains unclosed and forgotten due to their debauchery hours before, he was alone, once more. The only evidence that remained was the warmth and scent of Sherlock on the adjacent pillow. Despair. Longing. Shame. Sadness. Amongst other emotions swirled in his mind.  _

_ Did he take advantage of his inexperienced brother during his heat-induced lust and madness? But he remembered the glimpses of Sherlock’s iridescent eyes – that had not been the look of an Alpha coerced. Sentiment. And dare he say – affection. So much confusion. But it didn’t matter now. Sherlock had left London. No goodbyes. And perhaps… that would be the last time Mycroft would ever see him. He hugged the pillow saturated in Sherlock’s distinct scent tight against his chest and let the tears fall.  _

^^

A text wakes him up. Mycroft reaches for his phone on the nightstand and sighs. A minor emergency. He would need to be at Whitehall in approximately an hour. Sherlock is still snoring obliviously next to him. Tranquil. Still wearing that damnable nightshirt. Mycroft knows that Sherlock’s preferred attire when in bed is none at all. He had worn his nakedness as a weapon – such as in those damned awful Ms. Adler days. The injuries. Mycroft knows, but he has not seen them. Sherlock had been careful not to expose his naked back when they had been changing the night before. 

He thinks for a moment. Should he wake his brother up? Or should he just go? This had been the same dilemma that Sherlock had faced all those years ago. At least this time, none of them are going to be gone for who-knows-how-long. A couple of hours, at the most.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft whispers.

Sherlock snorts in his sleep, before his eyes blink repeatedly at Mycroft. “What?” His brother murmurs tiredly. 

“I need to go to the office. I should be back before Laurie wakes.”

“Mm… then go, Mycroft. Will miss your body heat…” His brother sprawls out further, taking more of the shared blankets.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Is that all I am to you, little brother?”

“You know what you mean to me, brother mine.” There is an uncharacteristic gentleness in the sleep-laden words. 

“Do I really?” Mycroft asks, feeling rather like he is standing on an unsteady ice floe, but he only receives earnest snores in reply.

***

“You aren’t dad!” Laurie looks almost accusingly at him. 

“No, I am not.” Sherlock replies bemusedly in his son’s room. So much for coming back before Laurie woke up... “Your dad went to work.”

“You don’t know what to do?” Laurie then asks, his sentence impressive for a three year old.

“Nope. I am afraid not.” Sherlock sighs. 

“Kiss. Brush teeth. Ice cream!” 

“Ha. Nice try. I don’t think your dad would consider ice cream an appropriate breakfast food.” Sherlock smirks, before giving his sneaky son a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s go wash up, and then I guess I can look for some breakfast for the both of us. Do you know how to brush your teeth?”

“Course I do.” Laurie jumps out of bed, before scampering to the loo. 

Just as Sherlock goes to follow his son, his phone rings. Sighing, he picks it up.

“Lestrade.” 

“Sherlock, could really use your help.” Lestrade proceeds to rattle off a bunch of facts and an address before Sherlock could get a word in.

“Gustave, I am afraid I cannot come. I am… occupied.”

“This is rather urgent.”

“I understand, but I also can’t leave a three year-old unaccompanied.”

“I am rather impressed. Always thought that you would be a good man for some lucky Omega…”

“Enough of the gossip, Gordon, send me some photographs and I will see what I can do. And, not a word of this to anyone…” 

“Of course not, the world would collapse to learn that the great Sherlock Holmes is a part time babysitter.”

“Terribly droll, Lestrade – now don’t you have criminals to catch?”

“Take a selfie with your child, and I will let you off the hook.”

“Fine. But you can’t show anyone else – alright?” 

“Cross my heart and hope to die! Course not, Sherlock – I am your friend. I will drop by later at Baker Street, or wherever you are. Will text you.”

Sherlock ends the call, and walks over to the loo. He can trust Lestrade to keep his promises. Considering Mycroft’s and his position in the world, it would not be wise to advertise the existence of their child. Nor does Sherlock want his son to grow up with the stigma that he is the product of an incestuous union. None of these things had been discussed between Mycroft and himself, but Sherlock knows that Mycroft would agree. He finds Laurie diligently brushing his teeth with a sparkly blue toothbrush while standing on a stepstool. His son spits out the toothpaste before rinsing. 

“Come on, Laurie, we got to take a photo together.” Sherlock grunts as he picks up his son.

“Why?” 

“Because Uncle Lestrade is an annoying bastard.”

“Bad word!” 

Sherlock grins irreverently, remembering the tale of a surgeon who got into trouble for swearing too much in the operating room – who as a solution substituted every bad word with the word ‘turkey’. “Well, fine… Uncle Lestrade is an annoying turkey. Better?”

“Who is Uncle Lestrade?”

“Smile for the camera, Laurie.” Sherlock points his phone’s camera towards the mirror and takes a quick snap. After approving of the picture, he sends it off to Lestrade. “Uncle Lestrade is a policeman. A detective inspector.”

“Ooh – are you in trouble?”

“Your dad would say I am trouble, but I am not in trouble.”

“Tissue?” Laurie asks, sniffling – and Sherlock pulls off some of the toilet paper so Laurie could blow his nose. “Feel better today.”

“You certainly look better, dearest mine.” Sherlock smiles fondly at the boy before quickly using a cloth to wash his son’s face. They then head downstairs, in the search for food.

***

A warm fuzzy feeling fills Mycroft’s chest as he walks into his living room. Laurie, already dressed and fed, is snuggling against Sherlock, scenting his brother, while the familiar dialogue of his son’s favourite movie – the Lego Movie – plays from the surround sound speakers. Well, at least Laurie had a new companion to watch movies with – his son has a limited selection of movies he wants to watch, so Mycroft has seen them all far too many times for any sane person. 

“Daddy!” Laurie exclaims excitedly, “You came back!”

“Of course I did, dearest mine. I always will.” Mycroft extends his arms out and Sherlock passes Laurie into them. He kisses his son on the cheek, and asks. “What did you do today?”

“Breakfast! Lock made eggs! And pancakes!” Mycroft notices Sherlock’s subtle quirk of a corner of his plush lips – a small smile at being acknowledged by his son. Damn, he wants to kiss that alluring smile off his brother. And then Laurie whispers a confession, “There was ice cream and strawberries.” 

“Laurie, that was supposed to be a secret!” Sherlock says, half-admonishingly, the other half with amusement. 

His son comically slaps his palm to his mouth. “Oops… sorry. There wasn’t any ice cream at breakfast, dad.”

Mycroft shakes his head, secretly happy that there are now plots against him. Everything will be well between Laurie and Sherlock. “What did I say about lying?”

“Be better at it.” Laurie says cheekily, while Sherlock hides a laugh behind his own palm.

“Naughty boys lie, Laurie.” Mycroft says with utmost seriousness, while his brother’s eyes are sparkling with unsuppressed mirth. 

“Well, I am naughty!” Laurie says, completely unapologetic. “So I lie!”

Mycroft sighs deeply as he sits down next to his brother, who winks at him. 

“This one is going to be a menace when he gets older.” 

“What did you expect, really, Mycroft? Neither of us were angels.” 

***

“Was there paint under her fingertips?” Sherlock asks, back at his Baker Street flat.

“Why?” Lestrade looks confused at the question.

“Yes, or no? If yes, arrest the handyman, if no – it was the cousin.”

“Bollocks!” Lestrade shakes his head, finally seeing all the pieces click together. “We arrested the wrong man.”

“It was a love triangle…” Sherlock murmurs. “A crime of passion. If one Alpha couldn’t have her, then they would make sure the other absolutely could not.”

“Cousins? Really?” Lestrade sounds skeptical, and Sherlock ponders about the merits of telling Lestrade who he really had his child with.

“First-cousin affairs are relatively common in many cultures around the world…” Sherlock says, patiently. His phone vibrates, so he takes a quick glance at the screen.

_ You coming back this evening? MH _

_ If you want me to. SH _

“I know, I know. I can’t imagine it. You know – for myself. I have one cousin, Sherlock – and I would never dream of taking her to bed.” Lestrade shudders. “Just not my type, at all. Absolute maneater. Goes through Alpha and Beta men like water.” At Sherlock’s look, he then adds. “I have no problems with incest as long as its not hurting anyone. It’s love, and that is certainly something rare enough in this world. So, how is your little one doing? I remember when Nat was that age – she liked playing the Floor-is-Lava or whatever it’s called now, and she broke the ex’s favourite vase, a lamp and her arm.”

_ We’d like you to. MH _

“He’s doing well. We watched a movie, coloured and I made lunch. No one was harmed. No broken bones.” Sherlock smirks.

_ Then, I will be there. SH _

_ Want me to bring anything? SH _

Lestrade grins happily – delight dances across his face. “Proud of you, Sherlock. I knew you could do it! So, what about your Omega?”

_ Bring some takeout? Chinese would be nice. Laurie really likes the sweet-and-sour squirrel-shaped fish from that new Shanghainese place that just opened. MH _

“He seems happy with how Laurie and I are getting along. I stayed over last night, but we just slept.” At Lestrade’s raised eyebrow, Sherlock says hastily, “Like I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed. I am still rather tired, Geoff. Being dead wasn’t fun.”

_ Your son has expensive taste. SH _

“Cuddling?” Lestrade asks.

_ Text me the address and phone number? SH _

“I was – I think what is colloquially called the – little spoon.”

“How adorable!” Lestrade’s smile is large, as Sherlock winces at the choice of adjective. “He’s bigger than you?”

“Taller, heavier.” Sherlock offers as he opens the link to the restaurant’s webpage that his brother had just sent and peruses the menu for other dishes that Mycroft and he would want to eat. He will call and order takeout for pickup as the restaurant does not do delivery.

_ I will try and come at 6. SH _

“Someone I know?”

“This isn’t twenty-questions, Lestrade.”

_ Take your time, brother mine. MH _

_ And thank you. I haven’t seen Laurie so happy. Or energetic. MH _

“Fine. I deduce that the answer is a – yes.” Lestrade then frowns. “I don’t think I know anyone who has had a child recently and is single and unbonded… It’s a rare situation among Omegas…” 

“Nevermind, Lestrade – if we are done here, I have other things to do, besides idly chit-chatting with you.”

_ Anytime, brother dear. SH _

He starts typing  _ I love _ , but quickly deletes the words. Instead he texts.

_ See you soon. SH _

_ Can’t wait. MH _

“You should buy flowers.” The older man states suddenly.

“What?”

“Flowers.”

“That sounds… horrendously sentimental, and not to mention, idiotically cliché.”

_ Neither can I. SH _

“They work though. No better way to show your intentions, unless your Omega is allergic.”

“But flowers? Really, Lestrade? He will ridicule me!” 

God, Mycroft would probably laugh at him for this foolish sentimentality. Fuck, did his brother even like flowers? 

“Think about it, won’t you? And if your Omega really cares for you, he will not ridicule you. Good luck!” Lestrade picks up his jacket and heads out, just as Sherlock dials the number of the restaurant to place his order.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

_ Would candles be too much? Flowers?  _

Mycroft ponders as he scrutinizes the dining table set with his finest tablecloth, silverware, chopsticks, linen napkins and wine glasses. He would pour some white grape juice for Laurie when Sherlock and he would share the fine white wine (a bottle of Lucien Le Moine Chevalier Montrachet from 2010) that is currently chilling in his fridge. 

Maybe he should have some candles… Sherlock and he are both so terrible at communicating what they really need from each other that any little bit of unambiguous symbology would help. It would be too late for him to go out and get fresh flowers though. A pity, really – but would Sherlock appreciate such frivolities? Mycroft shrugs as he hunts for the candles in his cupboards. He really doesn’t know. To be honest, he feels that he doesn’t know much about his brother at all – Sherlock himself had said that he is no longer the same man that had left all those years ago. 

Ah. So that’s what the concept of dating is all about. He would just have to flounder about cluelessly, just like the rest of the goldfish on this forsaken planet. Good Lord.

He finds the candles and lights them with the lighter that he had found in Sherlock’s coat. Time had flown quickly since Sherlock had jumped off the roof at Bart’s – now that he thinks about it. It had been at this table where Mycroft had stared dumbfoundedly at the pregnancy test; the two lines appearing to stare mockingly at him, upheaving his meticulously well-organized life. He had taken two more tests afterwards before slumping down in acceptance for who knows how long. 

Aside from his missed heat – there really hadn’t been any suspicious symptoms of pregnancy. All the awful symptoms had shown up after he had gone to his omega OB/GYN for the first trimester screening. There had been nothing like vomiting one’s guts out while staring – still disbelievingly at the ultrasound printout of the little being growing within him between episodes of running to the toilet. Damn. He should show all the evidence of these milestones to Sherlock at some point. 

Mycroft had never dreamt that his love for his brother would have led to this – an incestuous conception. He had never anticipated having children in his life. 

“Dad, help me?” The insistent tugging of Mycroft’s trousers by Laurie shakes him out of his reminiscences. There is a solemnity to his little son, dressed in his best shirt, slacks and shoes. Mycroft takes the blue tie that Laurie has in his hand, squats down and deftly ties a half-Windsor around his son’s neck. 

“You don’t have to dress up, dearest mine.” Mycroft gives a quick peck to Laurie cheek.

“Want to. For Lock.” Laurie then takes a look at the new bespoke three-piece suit that Mycroft is wearing. “You dressed nice too!”

“Ah, but that’s different. Sherlock wouldn’t mind, Laurie.” 

“Why?” 

“You will understand when you are a bit older, Laurie. When you go courting the other sexes.”

“Courting?”

Mycroft sighs. What kind of a hole did he dig himself into this time? “When an Alpha and an Omega –” 

Fortuitously he is interrupted by the sound of a doorbell. Laurie darts off – as if he’s never been ill recently – exclaiming, “Lock is here! Daddy! Lock is here!”

When Mycroft’s slightly nervous fingers open the door, Laurie immediately wraps his arms around one of Sherlock’s legs in a hug – his keen nose sniffing the scent of his sire. “Lock!” He calls out enthusiastically – his dear face tilted upward to see Sherlock’s face.

“Hello, little one.” Sherlock offers Laurie a small smile, while Mycroft looks dumbstruck at the large bouquet of sunflowers, calla lilies and red roses that rests in the crook of one of his brother’s arms. 

Instead his arm reaches out to take the two heavy bags of takeout that Sherlock had been carrying in his other hand. “Thank you – brother mine.” Mycroft manages; clearly he isn’t the only one who had thought that unmistakable signals that indicated romantic intent were necessary. 

His brother reaches down to scoop up Laurie in his now-freed arm. 

“Flowers!” Laurie enthuses. “Sunflowers!” 

“Ah, you like the sunflowers, Laurie?” Sherlock asks.

“My favourite!” His son confides as Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft. There is an intensity in those ever-changing eyes. They seem to ask cautiously.  _ “Too much? Too soon?” _

Mycroft gives a shake of his head before bringing the takeout to the dining table, where he proceeds to take out each box and empty their contents into recently-washed oriental porcelain plates and bowls. Hell is he going to have a nice meal with disposable styrofoam containers. There is tender braised pork in soy sauce (hóng shāo ròu), Laurie’s squirrel-shaped fish (sōng shǔ guì yú), some stir-fried pea pod leaves with king oyster mushrooms and those addictive soup dumplings with pork (xiǎo lóng bāo). There is even a box of egg tarts for dessert. And of course, a generous amount of rice to go with everything.

His brother busies himself with finding a vase – with some helpful direction from Laurie. The two go into the kitchen proper, where Sherlock allows Laurie to turn on the tap at the sink to fill the vase. When Mycroft is done rearranging the table for the second time – to ensure that everything is oriented in a visually appealing way – the flowers are situated in their new home on the dining table. He goes to fetch the wine and grape juice from the fridge.

“Let’s eat.” Mycroft says after returning to the table – pulling out a chair just as Sherlock observes. “You look good, brother.”

“You… look good too – little brother.”  _ Dashing actually. Ravishing. Good enough to devour. _ Not to mention the mouthwatering scent that his little brother exudes – a mix of cologne, his expensive hair care products and something intrinsically Sherlock – musky, earthy; an alluring smell that signifies  _ ‘could be dangerous’.  _

At some point when Sherlock had been gone – he had changed into another new suit – and is that a tie that is tied around his delectable neck? The flowers had been obscuring the view earlier. Good God have mercy. He isn’t even in heat – and he already wants to tear his brother out of his expensive clothes. Piece by fucking piece.  _ Calm down _ – he scolds himself internally. 

His brother gives him an amused look – almost as if he could deduce the train of Mycroft’s thoughts. But, mercifully, Sherlock sits down without a word with Laurie in his lap. His son is chattering happily to his brother, who makes the appropriate replies in response. 

“Wine?” Mycroft asks – moving to uncork the bottle.

“Please.” Sherlock gestures to his glass.

Mycroft decants two glasses’ worth of wine and one glass’ worth of juice for Laurie. His son looks excited just to be allowed to drink from a grownup glass rather than a spill-proof cup. 

“Mm… this is good stuff, brother. I quite like it.” Sherlock remarks after a sip while helping himself to the dishes on the table – making sure to take a large amount of the fish for Laurie. He keeps a wary eye out as Laurie picks up the glass of grape juice and cautiously takes a mouthful.

“Ah, I also have an excellent red that we can try next time. Maybe with a nice steak.”

“Looking forward to it, big brother.”

The conversation proceeds in this superficial manner – where Sherlock’s latest case with Lestrade gets aired out, the latest incompetencies of Mycroft’s minions get laughed at and the movies that Laurie likes get mentioned as well. Besides The Lego Movie, he also likes various Disney movies, anything involving Ironman and even Kung Fu Panda. The food steadily disappears – Sherlock actually does eat a decent amount. Mycroft could deduce that his little brother had completely skipped lunch. They both smile in amusement when Laurie slides off Sherlock’s lap to give a demonstration of his kung fu skills. 

“Perhaps he should get some martial arts lessons, brother.” Sherlock observes.

“Maybe, if his health remains stable.” Mycroft says cautiously.

“Full, Lock!” Laurie announces when Sherlock tries to give him another bite of his favourite fish.

“Have an egg tart then – it’s dessert.” Sherlock offers.

“Mm… dessert! Give me!”

“Manners.” Mycroft gently reminds his son, who immediately says with puppy-eyes that don’t look dissimilar to how Sherlock can look when he asks for things, “Pretty please?”

The tart disappears rapidly into Laurie’s mouth. “Yummy!” 

***

“You should go to sleep now, Laurie mine.” Sherlock gently combs through his son’s curls with his fingers after closing  _ The Story of Ferdinand _ . 

“Mm… Lock. I like fighting. But like flowers too.” His son murmurs sleepily in his bed – referring to the story’s protagonist, a bull who preferred to sniff flowers rather than tussling with other bulls. “Dad say messages in flowers – Lock. Sunflowers – happy!”

“That’s right, Laurie.” Sherlock replies – while wondering how it is possible that they had managed to create this sweet and innocent creature. 

“Dad say red rose is love.” Laurie adds.

“That’s also right.” Sherlock agrees, now musing on the direction that Laurie intends to take this conversation. Mycroft had brought the candles. He had brought the flowers. These are almost universal signs for date with romantic intentions. Or at least – the last time he had checked. 

“Do you love me, Lock?” Somehow, the blues of Laurie’s eyes have shifted – looking somewhat vulnerable in the lighting of the room. 

“Of course.” The words come easily out. There is no question about it. “With all my heart.” Sherlock bends down to kiss his son’s curls. “Always. Sleep now, Laurie.”

“Do you love daddy?” 

Before Sherlock could answer – Laurie had abruptly fallen asleep. He gives the sleeping boy one last kiss on the cheek, before tucking him in snugly. Before shutting off the lights and closing the door, Sherlock takes one last fond look.

***

After the last dish had been washed and dried, Mycroft suddenly feels nervous. His brother had gone to put Laurie to bed after Mycroft had helped his son shower. The passing minutes make Mycroft wonder whether or not Sherlock had gotten cold feet and had snuck out or just plain regretted getting involved at all. God. Insecurities. His eyes catch sight of the colourful bouquet on the table. Sherlock had gone out and bought that – he reminds himself sternly. 

The sensation of arms surrounding his waist from behind startles him. A nose rubs skillfully at his scent gland – releasing pheromones into his bloodstream. It makes him melt into the embrace of his very Alpha brother – Mycroft can distinctly feel the press of sizable and erect genitalia hidden (or not-so-well-hidden) within the confines of his brother’s trousers against his rear end. Fuck. How he wants. It had been years since he had an Alpha – ever since the heat that had conceived Laurie. “Sher-lock…” He whispers – unable to suppress an unnatural hitch in his voice.

“Mycroft…” There is a rumbling quality to his brother’s voice. Mycroft can feel himself being turned slightly, so that he could see the blown pupils in his brother’s eyes. 

“Mycroft…  _ mine _ ?” Sherlock asks.

Never had a word been so laden with meaning. But – Mycroft is quite done with analyzing and misinterpreting things so he simply replies with a nod – and he almost yelps when Sherlock picks him up with a simple but graceful move. The stairs – Mycroft worries, knowing that he is far from being the lightest of Omegas – but his brother easily navigates them, finds his bedroom and kicks the door shut after they cross the threshold.


	7. Chapter 7

**VII.**

Somehow, amongst the clumsy kisses, fumbling fingers, disappearing clothes and gasps for air – Mycroft manages to switch on the lamp in his otherwise pitch black bedroom, wanting… no –  _ needing  _ to see the virile Alpha – the Alpha he had once thought he could never have. Iridescent eyes gaze down at him – dark and burning with arousal – illuminated by the warm glow of the lamplight. Sherlock reaches down to unbutton Mycroft’s shirt – while Mycroft tries pull off his brother’s – earning himself a warning growl. 

“Don’t.” The gaze softens. “Or switch off the lamp.” Sherlock whispers – his legs moving to straddle him. 

Mycroft swallows the ‘Why?’ that wants to leave his own kiss-swollen lips – but now is really not the time. He would rather see his Alpha in all his beautiful glory rather than have a fumble in the dark. The pleasure crests again when Sherlock leans down to nuzzle, suck and kiss at his bonding scent gland – flooding his circulation once again with another burst of hormones. Instead, Mycroft’s fingers go to caress the planes of Sherlock’s taut abdomen and move upwards to tease the little pink nubs. Uncharacteristic, but yet delightful mewls escape from his brother’s mouth, while Mycroft is lost in the maddening musky scent of his beloved. A gasp is unexpectedly wrenched from him when sharp Alpha teeth scrape at his sensitive scent gland – and Mycroft finds himself wishing that he were actually in heat. Nothing had ever felt so good, nor so right in his entire life. And then he sighs when Sherlock’s cheek suddenly rests against his own; his brother’s strong arms wrapped securely around his torso. 

“I want it too.” Sherlock murmurs. He then says – rather surprisingly. “But… brother – let’s just enjoy the moment.”

“You never seemed to be one for that – Sherlock.” Mycroft finally finds his voice. His brother is the type to jump from one thing to the next – and god forbid he ever be bored. 

The intensity of their coupling had turned languid, receding from the desperation reminiscent of their first frantic sex that had been there initially. Mycroft reaches over to gently comb through his brother’s unruly curls, enjoying this unexpected relaxed version of Sherlock. 

“Mm…” Sherlock sighs – from the dual sensations of rubbing his cock against Mycroft’s bare thigh and having his curls played with. His tone turns serious… almost solemn. “On my travels – brother mine… I realized I didn’t want to die alone. Especially when they caught me in Serbia.” 

There is a lull. Mycroft continues to caress his brother – letting his hand travel along the curve of his brother’s distinctive face, not daring to speak. There is a tender fragility in the air as Sherlock continues to introspect, looking vulnerable underneath the light. “I dreamt of you, big brother. Constantly. I wanted  _ nothing  _ more than to stay after that night. There were times… when I was gone where I felt that I couldn’t go on. Things were too hard… too lonely… Days when I was sick. Days when I was injured. Mycroft... The thought of you kept me going in these hard times. God. Serbia. Hell on Earth. They tortured me. Chains, whips, hooks, electricity – you name it. I wouldn’t speak… and then they started to up the ante…” There is a dampness to Sherlock’s cheek. 

“Sh… brother – you don’t have to tell me.” Mycroft says – trying to hide his alarm. Fear, anger – sadness coalesces within him. Things like rape, removal of body parts – and other terrible things from reading reports of his agents out on the field come to mind. 

“It never got as far as that. But those idiots would have eventually gotten there.” Sherlock laughs weakly. A tad crazily. “I burned the entire place down. Razed it to the ground into smouldering ashes. It took me days to figure out if all our targets were dead... I deduced a minor guard… brother dear – and told him all the pertinent details about his cheating Omega – and in his rage and desire to get revenge – he left me unshackled. You can imagine the rest. I barely got out of hell alive.”

“My brave boy.” Mycroft whispers, as he rolls them over – so that he is on top of Sherlock now – mindful not to put too much pressure on his brother’s back. “My gorgeous, beautiful brother.” He presses soft kisses against his brother’s face – taking the time afterwards to suck and nuzzle at his brother’s scent gland – smaller and less potent than his own. “I am…”  _ beyond thankful that you are here. With me.  _ His voice gives way here… having collapsed due to the brunt of his sentiment. Instead he struggles – hearing the desire in his voice, “I want you, Sherlock.”

“Have me then.” Sherlock rasps. “In any permutation that you’d like, brother.” 

“Even…”

“Yes.” Sherlock simultaneously hisses and arches his back in pleasure when Mycroft presses his finger in wonder against that special wrinkled orifice that usually gets neglected during Alpha/Omega relations. “Fuck me, brother.” His Alpha clarifies, his eyes gazing imploringly into Mycroft’s own. Nothing had ever sounded as hot as the surety within Sherlock’s words. 

“Only if you show me your back.”

His brother flips over again – getting on his hands and knees, and practically tears his own shirt off himself. It is hard not to react to the mishmash of angry stitched together wounds caused by various implements of torture.

“It’s not pretty.. Isn’t it?” Sherlock asks rather self-deprecatingly when the silence grows too long. 

A pang strikes Mycroft’s heart. Instead of replying, he wraps his arms around his brother and presses a tender kiss against his scent gland. Mycroft reaches over to fetch a tube of artificial slick from the nightstand. Little brother shivers visibly when the cap opens with a  _ snick _ . WIthout preamble, Mycroft presses inward a lubricated digit against Sherlock’s virgin hole. The canal is tight – impossibly tight in the magnificent way it clings onto his finger. WIth care he inserts a second, before finding that sweet spot – causing his brother to writhe wantonly and fist the sheets in his hands. Sherlock almost levitates off the bed when Mycroft traces his rim with his tongue – before proceeding to work him open with both his digits and tongue. The tantalizing moans and other noises of ecstasy go straight to Mycroft’s Omega cock – smaller than his brother’s but still an impressive organ for his gender. 

He has never been so hard in his life. 

“God. Take me already, Mycroft mine.” Sherlock manages to gasp – in between all those other indecent noises that he cannot help but make.

And they both groan in tandem when Mycroft carefully slides into that ridiculously hot arse that no Omega should ever have a right to fuck – his brother’s walls embracing so deliciously around his prick that he is afraid that he would spend there and then – but somehow… he resists. 

“Move.” Sherlock demands urgently as Mycroft finally bottoms.

Grabbing his brother’s shoulders for leverage, he carefully pulls back out and thrusts straight back in – making sure to graze the prostate just right. Sherlock throws his head back – his face contorted with both pleasure and pain. The sounds are obscene: from the gradually crescendoing animalistic noises his brother makes, the slapping of his scrotum against Sherlock’s flesh and the thump of the bed hitting the wall each time he fucks into his brother. His brother doesn’t need gentleness – as Mycroft had deduced – he just wanted to be claimed, to be wanted – to be reminded that he is alive to enjoy  _ this _ . 

It is over almost too soon – Mycroft tells his brother to stroke himself when he reaches close to the end of his tether. When his orgasm unfolds, Mycroft bends over and bites  _ his  _ Sherlock’s scent gland – buried deep in his neck. It causes his brother to howl as he cums hard – spilling stripe after stripe of hot seed. It is a shame he doesn’t have a knot – Mycroft thinks – as there is nothing better than being tied together while experiencing post-coital bliss. 

The sated – dare he say –  _ happy _ smile on his Alpha’s otherwise relaxed face after being fucked and claimed in this unorthodox fashion chases the rest of the coherent thoughts out of Mycroft’s brain. They cuddle together – somehow feeling like they had already bonded. For real. 

***

Lestrade quirks an amused eyebrow when Sherlock gingerly sits down at the intentionally warped wooden table at a chippy down the street from New Scotland Yard; a popular place for lunch amongst the local cops. He passes over a basket of fish and chips, and Sherlock grunts his thanks – as he grabs a well-fried chip and appreciates the crisp exterior and potato-y interior. 

“You are doing it wrong.” The DI looks meaningfully at the bite mark exposed just a tad above the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt. With humour, he lectures. “You are supposed to bite the Omega, not the other way around.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Gary.” Sherlock slices his haddock into manageable pieces. “But – we aren’t quite there yet… uh… we never even talked about it.” Sighing somewhat wistfully, Sherlock’s hand reaches up to rub at Mycroft’s mark of possessiveness. It’s probably the most stereotypically Alpha thing he’s ever done (besides bedding his brother) to walk around with an exposed hickey. 

But all he could think of is how nice it had been to be in his Omega’s arms – to be cared for by him… and surprisingly how much he had liked being on the receiving end. It hadn’t been planned. Nor had he felt emasculated by the act. And then – of course, he hadn’t intended to talk about his time away, but all those feelings (no matter how much he had liked to pretend he didn’t have any; god, perhaps he is more stereotypical Alpha than he had thought he was) had bubbled out. Mycroft had understood him properly last night. He hadn’t wanted to be babied or felt sorry for. Just accepted and claimed for who he is and what he had experienced. 

“Ah… but these things would take time. I am sure you will figure it out.” Lestrade says – mercifully not touching upon the daydreaming that Sherlock had been indulging in. “So…” The DI jumps to another topic. “I meant to ask you… that bruise you had the other day… that was from John?”

Of course, Lestrade is a tenacious bastard. “Yeah.” Sherlock sees no point in lying. The DI is like a dog with a bone. He shrugs. “He had a difficult time. As I understood it.”

“Shite. Man – if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you were his Alpha judging by the level of mourning he did when you were gone. But regardless – Sherlock… don’t let anyone treat you like that, alright?” At Sherlock’s reluctant nod, Lestrade adds. “I mean it. If he does it again, I will throw him into the slammer for a night.” 

“I thought you were his friend.” Sherlock says while spearing a piece of the fish with his fork, rather flabbergasted that Gordon would care so much. But then, Gemini had been the one who hugged him when Sherlock had returned from the dead.

“Well… I prefer friends who can handle their emotions without resorting to punching others. And besides, I haven’t seen him much after you were gone. Although – I do know that he gave birth to a kit about half a year back… A little girl. Molly told me.” 

“I see.” Sherlock is surprised. Perhaps that meeting with John had upset him more than he had realized – if he hadn’t managed to deduce such a major change in his ex-flatmate’s life. He hadn’t really thought about it much – John’s reaction to his return. Mycroft, Laurie and even Gerald had kept him busy over the last few days. But he doesn’t want to talk about John. He wouldn’t bother with him unless John contacts him first. “So, why did you ask me here? Do you have another case?”

“Perhaps a bloke didn’t want to eat alone, Sherlock.” Lestrade smiles fondly at him. “Being me is not as easy as you think. Following leads, interrogating suspects, building airtight chains of evidence admissible to court, doing paperwork in between – and going home to a lonely bachelor’s shoebox of a flat at the end of it all – not much socialization going on in my life.” The DI, obviously not wanting to talk about himself, asks another question. “Did he like the flowers?”

“He didn’t explicitly say it – but I think he appreciated them.” Sherlock eats more fish. It is actually done well with the perfect amount of grease and crisp. “Kit loved them though – the sunflowers and the roses.”

“Well, it got you laid.” Lestrade actually waggles his eyebrows. “Rather unconventionally I would say. Almost taboo. I observed how you sat down. Bloody hell. I would like to see who this Omega is. He must be an exceptional man.”

“He is the most exceptional of men.” Sherlock grins, wondering how Lestrade would actually react to finding out who his lover is. 


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII.**

Anthea gives Sherlock a wary glance as he strides into the office. Clearly, time and the successful dismantling of a notorious network of crime has not changed the Beta’s good opinion on him. Laurie – who is sprawled out on a playmat on the floor – looks up from his magnetic square and triangular tiles and beams at Sherlock. “Lock!” He calls out – just as Sherlock sweeps past Anthea’s desk and picks up his boy, swinging him up high in the air.

“Hello, little one.” He lowers Laurie to kiss his cheek, ignoring the look of abject surprise from Anthea’s face at the entire sequence. “Missed me?”

“Course!” The boy chirps happily. “You help Uncle Lestrade?”

“You know it, Laurie mine.” Sherlock wraps his arms securely around his son, positioning him so that he could scent his neck. “What have you been up to?”

“Making rocket!” Laurie points down to the jumble of tiles. Sherlock sits down on the colourful mat and examines the construction site. A bunch of transparent red and orange triangular tiles had been placed together to make fins around the body of the ‘rocket’ – which consisted of square pieces. Overall, it is rather impressive for his age – Sherlock figures. 

“Anyone helped you?” He questions, curious.

“No! Trial… and error. As dad says!” Laurie exclaims, rather indignantly. 

His son then proceeds to rifle through the pockets of Sherlock’s new Belstaff. 

Yesterday, Laurie had discovered a stash of sugary contraband in one of his pockets – in the form of gummy worms. Sherlock had laughed while Laurie had whirled the worms around – his little fingers pinching their necks. He would then dangle them comically into his mouth to bite off their heads first. His son had eaten three in the exact same fashion, before Mycroft had noticed and snatched the rest of them away from Sherlock’s hand. His brother had shaken his head when Sherlock had whined rather loudly,  _ ‘I haven’t had any yet!’ _ – which had made Laurie giggle instead of lamenting the disappearance of his worms. A deep and pained sigh had escaped from his lover when Sherlock had mock-whispered,  _ ‘Daddy is going to eat them all by himself.’ _ which had made their boy double over in hysterics. 

“Ooh! There’s something!” Laurie pulls out a Lego polybag from the pocket. “Lego! Little ones! Dad said ‘no’.” The little boy looks dejected. “Said that I… cho... cho…”

“Choke.” Sherlock adds helpfully. “But, I will let you have this one if you promise not to put the blocks in your mouth – okay?”

“No block in mouth. Okay! I promise, Lock!” Laurie is already earnestly nodding, examining his treat in his hands. “Oh! Police car! And policeman! Like Uncle Lestrade!”

“That’s right!” Sherlock affirms, just as the door to the office opens. 

His brother emerges, only having eyes for his lover and child. “You do spoil the boy most horribly, brother mine.” Mycroft remarks, just as Anthea’s eyes widen alarmingly.

Hm… it seems that his brother had neglected to tell his assistant who had sired his son… Sherlock makes a mental note to avoid being alone with Anthea in the near future – he would very much like his genitalia intact – thank you very much.

***

“Sherlock, I really wish that you would tell me before exposing Laurie to new experiences.” Mycroft whispers to his lover in his (their?) bed. “He sometimes does still put things in his mouth. And he doesn’t even notice it.”

“I made him promise not to. And, Mycroft mine – I told him not to open it without your supervision after dinner.” Sherlock hurries to placate his Omega, nuzzling his nose against his brother’s neck.

Mycroft gently cups his hand around the back of Sherlock’s head, sliding his fingers into those silky-smooth curls that begged for being played with. Part of his brain wonders if little brother would enjoy it if he pulled at them. 

He says instead – ever the multitasker. “I want us to be a team – dear brother. I know we are both terribly independent people used to our own stubborn ways, but we must have a united front when it comes to parenting. Especially when Laurie gets older.”

“Are you upset at me, Mycroft?” Sherlock is genuinely concerned, unable to relax into his Mycroft’s touch. He doesn’t want to be the clueless Alpha who is insensitive to the needs of his Omega and child. The bumbling fool around the household that is sometimes relegated to the living room couch by their mate at night due to their ignorance; a rather common trope in society.

“No… maybe… yes? A little.” Mycroft is surprised to discover that he is bothered. He had been so used to burying all the unpleasant things Sherlock had used to do and say to him before  _ that  _ night when innate biology had made them shag like rabbits in this very room. “I don’t want to be the ‘bad cop’ of the parenting dynamic – brother. I felt that way about the candy yesterday. It’s fine for him to have a little like a piece or two – but certainly not the entire bag. And…” He trails off… unsure if he wants to talk about the other part of that entire conversation that had ‘bothered’ him. 

But… his brilliant brother – who Mycroft has discovered could be empathetic (non-sociopathic) when he wants to, can see it, or rather deduce it from his facial expression. His Alpha looks sadly at him; his irises had gone almost completely blue. He says, contritely, “I am sorry, Mycroft. For saying that. Making a food joke in front of Laurie at your expense. Besides, your vices would be much more sophisticated than gummy worms – anyways. You’ve picked an idiot to be your…” 

Sherlock looks away, turning his head slowly to the side. Under the warm glow of the lamplight, his brother suddenly looks younger… incredibly uncertain. Mycroft cannot help but admire the profile of his brother’s face – those characteristic cheekbones, his nose – the line of the jaw…

Physically attractive his Alpha may be – but it is the apology, or rather his brother’s care – or rather even Sherlock’s willingness to be vulnerable that takes Mycroft’s breath away. He reaches up for Sherlock’s shirt, and pulls his brother down to kiss his lips, nibbling gently – taking the time to convey his feelings; to convey forgiveness… and tenderness. His Alpha lets him dictate the proceedings, mirroring his moves as he takes the time to appreciate the contours of his brother’s delicious lips. 

There is a fond glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes when they finally break apart to draw breath before continuing their slow exploration, this time Mycroft slips his tongue between his brother’s lips. Their tongues touch gently. Everything is comfortable and affectionate – a slow simmer as gradually hands get involved – touching, caressing, making clothing vanish in an act that is getting increasingly efficient by the day – both of them clearly savouring the languorous build between them. 

Mycroft could feel perhaps a dribble of wetness escape his mouth as he contemplates his brother’s Alpha cock, already engorging – rising from a thatch of dark curls. God. It’s been years since he’s had a knot within him, not since Laurie had been conceived. He grasps the base of the impressive organ, where the bulb of the dormant knot is located – before slipping the glans, already dripping with precum into his mouth. 

Sherlock arches his back in surprised pleasure – his moans obscene to Mycroft’s ears as he licks and sucks at the sensitive flesh, relearning the veins and other anatomical details of this gorgeous phallus. A sigh escapes his brother, when Mycroft allows the cock to slip out with a squelch. With some urgency, Mycroft finds the tube of artificial Omega slick (while mentally making a note that he needs to go buy a lot more) and dumps a generous amount in his hand. 

He smears it over Sherlock’s prick, while kissing and licking at the bulb – wondering if the knot would take. When outside of estrus, the Alpha’s knot may not inflate – although the exact probabilities differ amongst Alphas. It fills him with both trepidation and arousal – Mycroft had never taken a knot outside of heat, and the experience is said to be intense – even with artificial lubrication. He distracts himself by kissing and licking at his Alpha’s knot while his fingers move to fondle the big fuzzy scrotal sac, enjoying its heft in his hand. The Alpha scent of his brother is slowly driving him mad – he wants to simultaneous bury his nose against Sherlock’s groin and impale his surprisingly wet cloaca onto his Alpha’s cock. 

“Brother… please.” Sherlock gasps, when Mycroft gives his sac a squeeze. “Stop teasing –” A hedonistic groan erupts from him when heavenly wet – and ridiculously tight – heat sinks onto his prick, sliding slowly down his shaft. God. His brother looks nothing like the man in the three-piece suits, keeping Great Britain from falling into chaos. Both pain and pleasure is written in the lines of his Omega’s face as Mycroft takes more of the phallus into him – his eyes scrunched up. This is an Omega (his Omega) succumbing to his most primitive need. And it is absolutely one of the most beautiful sights that Sherlock had ever seen.

“Fuck… it feels so good. So good. Alpha.” Mycroft gasps when he had finally taken the majority of his brother’s cock, and he starts fucking himself, oscillating up and down onto the organ – loving the way the girth of his Alpha’s cock stretches him. With the slow foreplay, and relative inexperience… the sex does not last long. His brother – no longer able to stay so passive – begins to thrust, rubbing Mycroft’s interior in all the right ways before his rhythm begins to fracture. Sherlock gasps once, making an intelligible noise that almost sounds like ‘Mycroft’ to Mycroft’s wistful ears – as he sends gushes of hot cum into the needy hole, causing it to spasm as Mycroft orgasms in response. His brother’s cock starts to soften, beginning to slip out of his cloaca along with Sherlock’s fluids and he sighs – wishing that he could keep the warmth within him for longer with an inflated knot. Instead, Mycroft reaches for his brother, pulling him closer for a post-coital cuddle. 

“Mm…” Sherlock murmurs into Mycroft’s neck, letting his teeth graze on that delectable scent gland. “You are so lovely, brother mine. My gorgeous Omega.” He purrs. 

It feels strange to hear his brother complimenting him like this, after years of not-so-nice comments about his appearance – but Mycroft knows his Alpha means them. He had always been known for his intellect, his ability to strategize – essentially for his brain; his identity as an Omega had always been left as an afterthought. There are days, or maybe even weeks that he has gone without even thinking about his secondary gender. He doesn’t even know how to process words like this.

“No. Brother.” Sherlock almost growls – his brain awash with all sorts of Alpha hormones while his arms tightening possessively around Mycroft’s torso. “You are mine. Mine. My Omega. I won’t let you forget it.” 

“You are mine, too.” Mycroft smiles – more amused than annoyed at this typical display of Alpha-posturing. “Don’t you forget it… Alpha mine.”

A snore from his brother makes Mycroft laugh – Sherlock had abruptly fallen asleep from exhaustion, even though Mycroft had done most of the work. How typical! He gets up from the bed after untangling himself from the limbs of his Alpha, intending to clean the mess on both himself and Sherlock before joining his Alpha in sweet slumber. 

***

“Sherlock, is that you?” The voice of Mrs. Hudson drifts from the open flat door. 

“Yes, it’s me.” Sherlock calls out as he hurriedly looks for the samples that he had collected and prepared from Lestrade’s latest case. There is an electron microscope with his name on it for the next few hours at Bart’s – and he would like to identify the latest killer and serial rapist before meeting Mycroft out for dinner.

“I am beginning to think that you don’t live here anymore.” His landlady leans against the doorway. “I’ve only seen you here, maybe once the entire week?” 

“Been busy.” Sherlock shrugs. “Cases… you know. Lots of unsolved problems from Scotland Yard since I’ve been gone.” He can almost feel Mrs. Hudson roll her eyes at him from behind. 

“I didn’t know that cases could lead to hickeys, Sherlock.” The amusement in Mrs. Hudson’s ‘innocent sounding’ voice is almost unbearable. 

Taking out his phone, Sherlock uses the camera app as a mirror.  _ Oh. _ Of course. Mycroft’s almost pathological obsession with leaving bruises on his neck… but then again his inner Alpha had been rather happy walking around with such marks uncovered during the last few days.

“Oh… uh… I’ve been seeing someone.” Sherlock admits, seeing no point in telling lies. 

Mrs. Hudson actually smiles. She claps her hands together in joy. “Well… well, well – I’d never thought this day would actually come. I am happy for you, Sherlock.” She grins brightly. “I’d imagine the sex is good, then? You know you can always come to me for advice. My ex-husband –”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock tries to stop this potentially disturbing conversation in its tracks. A stream of words come out of his mouth. “I am fine. We are fine. We have amazing sex. No advice needed. Thank you.” He shuts his mouth in relief when he finds the necessary samples behind the milk carton in the refrigerator.

“Just trying to help, dear. Remember the protection and the birth control.”

“I know, Mrs. Hudson. Believe me. I do.” Sherlock’s eyes soften at the Beta woman as he reaches for his coat. The birth control advice has come several years too late, although Sherlock would not give up Laurie for the world. He doubts that Mycroft would make the same mistake twice. And, besides – there is no one more special in this universe than  _ his _ son. “Now, I have to get going, or some other idiot is going to steal my microscopy time. Ta!”


	9. Chapter 9

**IX.**

Glancing briefly at his phone, Sherlock notes that it is almost seven. Perfect. He would have ample time to go meet Mycroft for their date at 8:30 in Mayfair. It had been a productive day in the labs of St. Bart’s. He had matched his samples (both the clothing fibres and DNA that the man had left on his latest victim) to one of the three suspects that Lestrade had been having a difficult time trying to work out. As he sits next to the thermocycler on a lab stool – he texts pictures of his proof to Lestrade while promising to drop by New Scotland Yard (NSY) tomorrow to hand over his leftover samples and USB stick containing the data from his imaging. The net is indeed, closing in.

His phone chirps – a text. Not from Mycroft.

_ Sherlock… I am sorry about how I reacted the other day. It’s been difficult. The past few years. Do you have time to meet today? JW _

He sighs deeply. Of course. The day John reaches out to him is a day he has his  _ first _ date with Mycroft without Laurie being present. Anthea had kindly agreed to babysit their boy overnight. 

_ Sorry. Busy this evening. SH _

_ A case? I would love to be a part of it. JW _

_ Just like the good old times. JW _

_ I am sorry, John. My plans this evening involve something personal. SH  _

_ Personal? You never had personal plans… JW _

_ If you don’t want to see me, just say so! JW _

Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache start to throb in his temple. John is clearly still pissed off at him. From the texts he could roughly deduce that John had painstakingly arranged it so that he could have some free time on Friday evening to spend with him, assuming that Sherlock would always be available. He hates it, being a source of anger for the man that had been his best friend during a time when he had really needed one. The man that had praised him and looked at him like he was someone amazing… 

Ah. But, wait… His brain conjures up images of Mycroft. The look of awe in (his?) Omega’s eyes when Sherlock had allowed him to penetrate him. The fond look of affection that Mycroft gives him when he thinks Sherlock isn’t watching. (Reflective surfaces are his best friend!) That adoring gaze that Omegas have for their Alphas when they see them playing with their offspring. He had caught Mycroft looking at him in this manner when he had been reading to Laurie before bed. 

A yearning fills in his chest – even though he had seen Mycroft this morning, he finds that at this moment, he misses him quite terribly. Sentiment. Affection. Oxytocin. (The bonding hormone released during sex and scenting that facilitates attachment between couples, amplified manyfold by Alpha and Omega specific chemicals.) 

“You seem rather lost in thought, Sherlock. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you are mooning over some Omega.” 

“Piss off, Mike.” Sherlock says reflexively, causing the other Alpha, the physician-scientist that owns the lab, to laugh. 

“Oh! You are! I knew it! You are just like everyone else, Sherlock – as much as you hate to admit it.” Mike is too gleeful. He then says seriously. “I am happy for you. To love an Omega as an Alpha – I think is one of the most beautiful experiences in this world.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock finds himself saying. His relationship to Mycroft is beautiful, but years of helping Lestrade had shown the darker sides of Alpha-Omega relationships. With such powerful biochemistry being involved, it is inevitable. But Mike Stanford wouldn’t be thinking like this – he is one of the happiest Alphas that Sherlock had ever seen. “I should go. I have a date.” He quickly texts Mycroft first.

_ I miss you. I am heading over to Mayfair now. SH _

And then to John:

_ People change. SH _

“Don’t fuck it up! And – don’t forget the protection.” Mike winks.

“Duly noted.” Sherlock replies drolly, as he reads Mycroft’s answering text.

_ Miss you too, lover mine. Cannot wait to see you, my handsome Alpha. MH _

“Ah, that cute little infatuated smile of yours – I should really take a picture.” 

“Mike, this isn’t funny.” Sherlock almost growls as he grabs his Belstaff from the hook on the nearby wall. Although, he realizes he cannot really complain, considering all the blunt deductions he had hurled out at the man in the past few years. 

“Au contraire, mon ami. It is incredibly amusing. As they say – go get’em, tiger! And thank you for cleaning up the cycler, Sherlock.” 

Mike just smiles widely when Sherlock makes a rude gesture and replies with the parting words, “Don’t get used to it.”

***

Mycroft carefully folds the napkin in half and drapes it on his lap, taking in the surreal yet beautiful surroundings of the Glade at sketch (a triple Michelin starred restaurant). The walls are painted with lush forest scenery, giving a mystical – almost mythical – air to the room; it seems that dryads, fairies or even unicorns would inhabit this space. He had asked for a discreet corner, not wanting to be spotted by anyone he knows – which would be the fastest way to ruin his appetite and Friday evening. He sips at the water, and peruses the menu. Sherlock always deferred to him to make the choices when going out to eat. Very unAlpha like behaviour, but Mycroft doesn’t mind. He loves to look after little brother – even more now that Sherlock lets him do so without a fuss. 

“Hullo, Mycroft.” 

Looking up from the menu, he sees Sherlock suddenly standing in front of him. In a new suit – Spencer Hart – tailored to his current measurements. His shirt is a blue one that Mycroft had bought for him years ago, but he had never seen Sherlock wear it until today. As he had suspected, that shirt looks amazing on him – complimenting his eyes and alabaster skin. The collar, open as it always is – is exposing all that gorgeous neck anatomy. With that subtle mark that Mycroft had left from last night. Ah, this is visual perfection. 

There is an uncharacteristic shyness about his brother – which Mycroft finds adorable, and he simply says. “Sit down, little brother. No need to be shy.” 

“Mm… not so little.” Sherlock refutes, playfully as he lowers his bottom onto the velvet of the chair. “I am surprised you picked the Glade – I’d thought you’d pick the Lecture Room.”

“So, I can lecture you all evening? Be your boring, stuffy older brother?” Mycroft smiles teasingly. “Here, I thought you wanted a flirtatious and playful Omega… I like the whimsy of this room, Sherlock.” And then he says, with more gravity than levity. “The last few days have felt like a fantasy, dear one.” He reaches over, and Sherlock grabs his hands tightly. “I never dreamed…” He manages, trailing off.

“Mycroft, for me as well. Sometimes I feel like I am still out there. Not in England. Chasing tails. Dreaming in between. Fairytales of you.” Sherlock swallows, evidently uncomfortable with all the sentiment he just spouted, but he presses bravely onwards, his eyes shining. “I don’t want to wake up.” 

They are interrupted when the server comes to take their orders and refill the glasses. Mycroft orders some nice French wine, an assortment of appetizers and an entrée. One of Sherlock’s legs is entwined with his own. 

“No dessert, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, touching a delicate subject.

“I thought that I would see how we fare afterwards. And, Sherlock – there is always room for dessert.” Mycroft winks at him, and Sherlock could feel his prick twitch in his trousers. 

Sherlock’s phone chirps, and Mycroft sighs quietly when his brother reaches for the device, glances quickly at it (a text, Mycroft deduces – but not from the DI), taps the screen a few times and puts it away. 

“I silenced it, brother. We shan’t have any unwanted distractions tonight.” Sherlock says, although Mycroft could tell now that little brother isn’t happy with whoever had sent him the text – and it doesn’t take a genius to realize that it is a text from the former flatmate.

“Sherlock. What is wrong?” He decides to poke at the problem.

Sherlock’s eyes soften in the lighting. “It’s just – you know – not important.”

“John.” Mycroft simply says, finding himself further disliking this former Omega friend of his brother’s. “He wanted something from you?” After he had the nerve to abuse his brother physically – tearing open those stitches on his poor lover’s back? 

“He wanted to meet tonight. I told him no. And he sent me this.” Sherlock passes his phone, and Mycroft could read:

_ Personal? You never had personal plans… JW _

_ If you don’t want to see me, just say so! JW _

_ People change. SH _

_ You’ve always said that people don’t. JW  _

“But I don’t want to talk about him today, Mycroft. Let’s enjoy ourselves, please?” Sherlock takes his phone back and Mycroft’s brain churns with deductions. 

An unhappy John Watson, not just unhappy with Sherlock, but unhappy with his entire situation in life. A repressed gay Omega, who likely had suppressed feelings for his Alpha brother. The mourning that John had went through after Sherlock’s death had Mycroft’s suspicions fully aroused. And then, he had met Mary – an Alpha with a strong personality – and succumbed to her charms while never being totally over his brother. The normal life – as Mycroft had gleaned from reading the doctor’s psych files from his army days – is exactly something John does not want – but this is a fact that the doctor had always failed to appreciate, always trying to pick the ‘normal’ option. Which had always gone to pieces when Sherlock had been around. 

Mycroft files all this information away. Discussing this with his brother would only lead to an unwanted argument. All he could be grateful for is that Watson is bonded for life to another.

“Of course.” Mycroft offers his brother a smile, just as the server brings their appetizers.

***

The appetizers are delicious. Sherlock spears a piece of pumpkin, dipped in honey velouté and places it in his mouth. He tries all the dishes his brother had ordered – the halibut souffle, the pan-fried escargot, a salad of lettuce hearts, goat cheese, blueberries and avocado and the veal with mushrooms. Considering all the sex he’s been getting these days, he can afford to eat.

There is limited talking, Mycroft is also busy feasting and savouring all the food that is on the table. It’s somewhat adorable, watching his brother enjoying his food. He almost winces – in his preReichenbach days, he would turn his nose at the fancy food that his brother likes to eat, only really as a rebellious action. Not to mention the weight jokes – any other Omega would have seriously beat him to death over them a long time ago. 

“Sherlock, I’ve long forgiven you.” Mycroft puts down his utensils, satisfied with his selection from the appetizer menu.

“I will do better, I promise.” Sherlock says instead.

“I know, lover mine.” Mycroft replies. The fond looks his brother gives him are more than he had ever deserved. “The food?”

“Scrumptious!” Sherlock remarks – eagerly. He then changes the topic. “I look forward to our trip outside of England.”

Mycroft smiles at that. “It will be a nice long weekend trip. Laurie would love it.”

“I would love it.” Sherlock adds. “I will happily do all the ridiculously cliché things lovers do in Paris with you.” 

“I don’t want to bore you. Nor offend your Bohemian soul.” 

“Nonsense. Mycroft – just be yourself with me – please. Not what you think I would want in an Omega. I care about you… not some stupid societal construct.” Sherlock says honestly. 

“It’s hard, Sherlock. As much as we have both tried to ignore the nature of our secondary genders, you cannot argue that we are both completely free of the unconscious societal influences that shape our perception of how we should behave." 

Sherlock just feels sad. Part of how his brother acts is due to him too. He had teased Mycroft when they had been much younger whenever he would do something stereotypically Omega. Nesting, cleaning, even nagging make up examples. And making fun of his appearance too. An Omega is the fairer secondary sex – they are generally more attractive than their Alpha counterparts. They are more sensitive to jokes about their appearance. Alphas, however, tease each other about how ugly they are on a regular basis. 

Mycroft had always seemed to him to be untouchable, beyond the needs of his biology – and like everyone else, Sherlock didn’t really see him as an Omega until the day that changed everything. Which is perhaps why he had always been vicious to his brother in his young adulthood. Just wanting to bring his perfect brother down a peg. But he understands now that like him, his brother is human, has feelings and a surprising amount of vulnerability. Over the last few days, they’ve been gradually breaking the barriers down – daring to reveal all the insecurities, buried agonies and god knows what else buried under the masks they wear. 

All he wants to do now is to protect and dare he say ‘love’ his Omega. Oh god. He does love Mycroft. But is that really a surprising conclusion? 

The main course comes – roasted Challan duck done in two ways. Aiguillettes coated with cranberries, savoy cabbage & courgette purée, and a leg confit with a delectable looking sauce. The duck goes deliciously with the wine that Mycroft had picked out. Sherlock’s leg remains entwined with Mycroft’s, gently rubbing his brother’s calf. He finds himself watching Mycroft’s hands as they work to cut up the duck, spear the pieces and deposit the morsels between his lips. Elegant. Beautiful. Almost dainty. Those hands have power – Sherlock thinks – they have signed international treaties, military orders – changing politics, keeping the country going just to name a few. Ah – and the lovely way his Mycroft holds his wineglass – and what those hands could do to him. He shudders with arousal with the mere thought of it. 

His brother smirks at him, and Sherlock almost gasps when Mycroft leans forward – just a little and presses his knees deliberately against his. Reflexively, Sherlock retreats, but Mycroft pursues – while pretending absolutely nothing is happening under the translucently green dining table. “Shall we get dessert, little brother?” 

There is something coy in big brother’s grin and Sherlock hides his blushing face with the dessert menu, trying to get himself under some semblance of control. At some point, Mycroft had slipped off an expensive shoe and massages Sherlock’s leg – slowly but surely inching dangerously upward. 

“I think we should have some cake.” Sherlock adds, with a wink. “I will share the Saint-Rémy De Provence with you.” 

“Sounds good.” Mycroft sounds approving of Sherlock’s choice. “Let us eat cake, then.”

They order the cake – an olive oil dacquoise cake with lavender honey ice cream, lemon & star anise water. With the plate in the middle, they share – their hands (inadvertently?) brushing against each other. Mycroft holds his fork out, with a morsel of cake – and Sherlock finds himself leaning inwards, to capture the delectable offering in his mouth. He returns the favour, and when the cake is gone, Mycroft inquires as he throws a few bills on the table – his face flushed with both alcohol and arousal – “Let’s get out of here?”

“Fuck, yes.” Sherlock gets up – feeling somewhat heady with good food, alcohol and Mycroft – before offering his brother his hand to help him up. 

Emboldened, Sherlock wraps his arm possessively around his brother’s waist – as he escorts him out towards the cloakroom. 


	10. Chapter 10

**X.**

Just after Mycroft sheds his coat – leaving it on the coat stand, Sherlock’s arms immediately encircle his waist from behind in a firm embrace. His brother’s cold cheek brushes against his own, before proceeding to nuzzle at his scent gland. Mycroft’s eyes flutter shut as those pleasurable chemicals flood his circulation – his blood carrying these potent signals quickly to his brain. Oh, how he wants this. His inner Omega – despite being out of heat – wants to be taken by his Alpha; he craves it desperately. 

He feels it then – the hard, erect Alpha cock of his lover being pressed firmly against his backside. They might not even make it up the stairs, let alone out of the foyer. The uninhibited and lascivious moan that escapes from him causes Sherlock to chuckle gently. His own Omega cock fills with his own arousal. Despite this, Sherlock continues to rub his face against Mycroft’s – making constant purring noises of contentment. Damn. He needs his brother to do something. 

“Sherlock…” He whispers – feeling obligated to do so as none of the lights had been turned on in the house. “Please…” Deliberately, Mycroft presses back against his Alpha’s member – allowing his hips to gyrate in what he hoped was a seductive circle, eliciting a groan from Sherlock that heightens Mycroft’s own arousal. 

“Need something, big brother?” The question is asked with an air of innocence – but Mycroft can hear the undercurrent of playfulness. “My Omega?” Sherlock reiterates. 

“Don’t play dumb, little brother.” Mycroft warns – well aware that any threat in his voice had been long mitigated by the neediness in it. 

“Or what?” Sherlock’s voice is a deep rumble. 

“I will go search out for one of my toys if you do.” He gasps when Sherlock pushes him (gently) against the closest wall, his brother’s sharp teeth scraping against the gland. 

His cloaca – generally dry during the non-heat weeks – begins to feel moist; those once dormant glands are now making that Omega slick. Sherlock’s fingers run down the silky fabric of Mycroft’s tie, before nimbly undoing the buttons of the waistcoat and then the shirt. Damn. Mycroft finds himself wishing that magic is real – he wants to make his clothing all disappear with a snap of his fingers. Ah… the inconvenience of three piece suits.

“Ah, I should let you, brother mine.” Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s smirk against his skin. “I can see it – you know. My beautiful Omega, fucking himself on a sizable toy knot, mewling so desperately for release. But, I will know, big brother, that it will be  _ my  _ knot that you wish was in you – stretching and filling your needy cloaca – pumping you full with  _ my _ hot seed – breeding you – as you fuck yourself – frustrated – on an impotent silicone excuse for a dick.”

Mycroft is only glad that the darkness hides his burning face. As filthy as these words are, Mycroft has to admit that his Alpha isn’t wrong. When Sherlock had been gone during the last few years – Mycroft had fucked himself on his sizable toys during his heats, lamenting that they weren’t Sherlock’s Alpha prick. 

Something like heat floods his face while a familiar dull ache begins to make itself known from down below. God. He isn’t in heat, is he? He’s not due for a while. A pseudo-heat then. And, where did Sherlock learn how to talk like this? Ah, but his brother always had a talented but nasty mouth… And while in his thoughts – he finally notices the cool air against his naked skin – his brother had finally removed all of Mycroft’s upperwear. The sound of unzipping catches him off guard, and Mycroft makes noises of pleasure when his brother takes his cock in hand, stroking for a moment or two, before finally pulling down Mycroft’s briefs, belt and trousers in one go allowing the clothes to fall in a crumpled heap around his ankles.

“Fuck, brother – you are so wet! Are you not in heat?” Sherlock uses his hands to spread Mycroft’s generous butt cheeks, revealing the rosy orifice hidden within. 

“No – pseudo-heat.” Mycroft pants out the words. “Please, Sherlock –  _ do  _ something…” He moans and mewls when his brother’s tongue licks teasingly across his hole. 

The devilish wet muscle of his brother then licks inward – and Mycroft could feel himself leak from both his cock and cloaca – his brain short-circuiting as Sherlock devours his Omega slick like a famished man – his Alpha’s face buried in his arse. Suddenly, his breath is stolen from him when that Alpha prick slides into his endogenously lubricated cloaca – stretching him so suddenly and so deliciously. Sherlock fucks into him hard – as if he is actually in a rut. 

Words such as ‘please’, ‘harder’, ‘more’ and ‘Alpha’ could be made out from the otherwise stream of gibberish that leaves Mycroft’s mouth. His own cock rubs against the wall – bringing him perilously close to orgasm, and another gasp is wrenched from him when he feels that knot from the base of Sherlock’s prick beginning to engorge.  _ Yes. Yes. Yes. Give it to me – Alpha! _ He thinks – only to realize that he had actually shouted these words out – his voice echoing loudly in his ears. 

The knot is rubbing fantastically against his prostate as Sherlock pounds away furiously at his arse – his hands grabbing Mycroft’s shoulders in a grip so hard for leverage that there is bound to be bruises for the next few days. A completely unrecognizable noise (a howl?) leaves his throat when pointy teeth clamp down hard against his scent gland – causing Mycroft to cum. Seconds later, gushes of hot Alpha seed flood his cloaca, filling him up – just as Sherlock’s knot locks them together. 

The next thing Mycroft is aware of is that he is cuddled against his brother – with him as the little spoon – on the couch in the living room. A thick quilt – saturated with both his and Sherlock’s scents – is draped over them. The formidable knot is still keeping them both tied together – and as Mycroft shifts to readjust his position, it causes his brother to shudder as his movements accidentally pulls at his prick. He sighs – wishing that he could look at his Alpha from his position. Instead he remarks, “This quilt wasn’t down here earlier.”

“Ah, big brother mine.” Sherlock says – his tone fond. “I brought it down here – last night – just in case we needed it. Temporary nesting materials – I thought. In case we never make it upstairs one of these days. I also hid some Omega slick around.”

“You do know Laurie plays around here, do you?” Mycroft asks, although he is very touched that his brother thought ahead. These are things that usually Omegas think of. 

“I hid it under the cushions. No worries.” And then Sherlock inquires. “Can an Omega get pregnant on a pseudo-heat?” 

“Yes… but the odds are much lower compared to a real heat.” Mycroft says firmly. “And I did take my birth control shot recently.” 

“Mm… just checking.” Sherlock licks apologetically at the sizable bite-patterned bruise that he had left on his brother’s neck. 

Actually – he isn’t sorry at all. Mycroft had been leaving visible marks on his neck every time they have had intercourse. The Alpha in him preens – noting that some day Sherlock would do this for real. 

“Practicing your biting – little brother?” Mycroft asks, moments later – the alcohol and the postcoital hormones making him bold. His hand drifts upwards to his neck, gently touching the abused flesh. He is well aware that there is a silly little besotted grin on his countenance.

“Mm… you know… just in case.” Sherlock smiles against Mycroft’s neck. His arms are wrapped possessively around Mycroft’s torso. “You never know when I may find an Omega that I want to bond with.”

“I thought you never wanted to be bonded.” Mycroft muses – even though he knows now that it isn’t true. But the youthful Sherlock had wanted nothing to do with Omegas or bonding, let alone sentiment. 

“People change.” Sherlock states a familiar phrase.

“Indeed they do.” Mycroft grins, as he feels Sherlock’s knot beginning to shrink. The prick slips out of his cloaca with an obscene sounding squelch. Unlike a real heat – a pseudo-heat usually fizzles out after one round. It is only a fortuitous coincidence that Sherlock’s knot had taken as well during this round of intercourse.

***

“I want to show you something, little brother.” There is almost a shyness in the way Mycroft speaks. 

Sherlock, having assumed that they are going to go to sleep after the sex and the shower, rolls over onto his front. Curiously, he crawls forward to where Mycroft sits at the edge of the bed. “What is it?” He inquires.

A photo album gets placed in front of him. Mycroft flips it open to the first page, where there are a few stills captured from an ultrasound machine. Oh. These are pictures of Laurie. Sherlock realizes. Each snap is dated, and some had words written at the back in Mycroft’s simple, but elegant hand. His Omega points to the first one, where Sherlock sees a little bean-shaped thing in a sac. There is a distinguishable head, body and a pair of arms and legs. 

“You went relatively late to the OB/GYN, Mycroft.” Sherlock deduces. From the image he could tell that it was taken when Laurie was over eight or nine weeks along.

“I didn’t realize I missed my shot until a month after you left, Sherlock. Logically, I knew that being pregnant was an option; however, my mind insisted that it was impossible. Nevertheless, I missed my second birth control appointment – perhaps because something in me already knew that Laurie was growing inside.” Sherlock notices Mycroft unconsciously rest a hand over where his uterus is. His brother continues. “And then I missed my heat. I am predictably regular, little brother. So, sheepishly I went to go see my OB/GYN. She was shocked that I missed two of my shots, and then when I told her the tale – she was really shocked.”

“You told her that I was the sire?” Sherlock asks.

“I mentioned that the sire was my brother. And she figured it out – remembering a few remarks that I’ve made in the past during our appointments. I had to tell her, Sherlock. I needed to make sure…” 

“That Laurie would be healthy?” Sherlock finishes. Wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s torso, he proceeds to scent him, offering comfort. “Oh brother – I wish I had been there with you. The conversation must have been excruciating.” 

He could only imagine what kind of conversation would have taken place. A discussion of Mycroft’s unbonded status _ –  _ and how much more improbable and difficult it would be for him to carry a kit to term without an Alpha’s bondbite. The risks of direct sibling-sibling incest, considering that he and Mycroft share approximately fifty percent of their genes – dramatically increasing the likelihood that recessive alleles (versions of genes) would get paired together to create a detrimental condition in their child. No doubt, they probably talked about abortion too. Which would have been the logical option for the majority of unbonded Omegas. Sherlock only feels a deep sense of sadness. No Omega should have gone through this alone, especially without a bondbite. He knows Mycroft had needlessly suffered. 

“It’s alright, little brother. It was a ghastly conversation. She did my ultrasound afterwards, and I knew for sure that I would have the child. How could I not?” His brother swallows. “I loved you then, Sherlock. The idea of getting rid of something that contained you was unthinkable. Abhorrent. And…” Mycroft looks away now – but Sherlock could tell that his brother’s eyes are wet. 

Sherlock remembers that Mycroft had touched upon his feelings on the subject on the very first day of his return from the dead. “I didn’t know if you would come back. We talked about it – remember? The risk that you might never return. And then, I thought that if I had the kit, this was a way that I could have a part of you with me, in the event that…”  _ You don’t return back to me. _ The words are unsaid, but Sherlock could see them in Mycroft’s eyes; the blues – usually calm and collected – now dim and glossy with emotion. 

“I came back.” Sherlock says with a fond smile. “I returned back to you.” 

“I am glad.” Mycroft turns his head slightly, so that their lips could meet. “Beyond glad.” 

“You said you loved me.” Courageously, Sherlock makes the plunge. “Do you still love me now?”

“Brother. How could you ask me such a thing?” The tone in which the question is asked with alarms Sherlock. Mycroft then adds, rather sadly. “What else could I possibly do to show you how much you mean to me?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice is urgent as he tenderly rests his palm against the side of his lover's face. “Mycroft.” He repeats again, gently guiding his brother’s distraught face towards his own. With determination, he says. “Of course, I love you. In all the ways that matter.” 

They kiss, their noses brushing lightly against one another. Their tongues tango deliciously together, with Sherlock trying to convey everything that Mycroft means to him in this single gesture. When they break apart, Mycroft is smiling in a way that Sherlock had never seen him smile. 

The smile of a happy Omega in love. 

“I love you too, brother mine.” His brother says, his eyes now bright. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I am happy… that I am allowed to put my love into practice.”

“Hmm… practice.” Sherlock grins mischievously, immediately changing the mood. “I like the sound of that.”

“Naughty. Insatiable. Alpha.” Mycroft emphasizes each word, before pushing a very willing and delighted Sherlock back down onto their bed. 

“That’s me. And I am your naughty –” The rest of Sherlock’s sentence gets swallowed when his Omega reaches down to kiss him into sweet oblivion after straddling his hips. 

***

It is a happy and rather sated Sherlock that walks into 221 Baker Street while whistling a jaunty tune. As much as he would have loved to spend his Saturday afternoon with his lover and son, he does have a job to do. On the way upstairs, he is waylaid by a nosy Mrs. Hudson – who offers him a cuppa and biscuits. 

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson – I couldn’t possibly eat more.” Sherlock rubs at his belly, full of a Mycroft-made breakfast of fried eggs, tomatoes and sausages accompanied by Laurie’s favourite pancakes drizzled with honey, a dash of Nutella and garnished with fruit. Anthea had dropped Laurie off just as Mycroft had started cooking. And he cannot forget the cum that he had ingested when he had given his Omega a first-ever blowjob. “But, I won’t turn down ginger nuts.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Mrs. Hudson leads him into her homey kitchen, already fragrant with the smells of her baking. She smiles fondly at him. “I baked them fresh. Good night?”

“Amazing night.” Sherlock cannot help but grin, noting that Mrs. Hudson is staring at his neck where Mycroft had been rather overzealous in his worship of it.

“I am happy for you, dear.” Mrs. Hudson brings over the tea – English Breakfast – and a plateful of just-out-of-the-oven biscuits for the both of them. “Really, I am. But I do miss my crazy tenant.”

“Ah, do you really? I would imagine it to be peaceful.” Sherlock sips at his tea.

“Too peaceful.” Mrs. Hudson grins. “You don’t even see clients anymore!”

“I haven’t seen any since I had gotten back. And I don’t think I will need to, unless if someone had an exceptional case. Lestrade’s work is plenty. And I would like some time with my significant other and –” Sherlock swallows down the words, but Mrs. Hudson, with her keen skills, pounces.

“You have… a child! A kit!” She almost shrieks. “And you didn’t bond!”

“I do. And I didn’t. I didn’t know that I had sired a kit until I came back from the dead. Only Lestrade knows about the child, so please don’t go around telling everyone. Even my parents do not know. I do have enemies, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock admits, seeing that the game is up. 

“But… when?”

“Before I went away. It’s a long story and not mine to tell.” Sherlock quickly nips the questions in the bud. He quickly changes the topic of conversation. “How was bridge yesterday with the ladies?”

“Cancelled – Greta had a cold. Sherlock – John came by in the evening, looking for you.” Mrs. Hudson informs – telling Sherlock what she had originally wanted to tell him. 

“What did he say? And what did you say?” Sherlock asks, noting that he does not have much time now. He needs to go to Scotland Yard to meet up with Lestrade to hand over the evidence soon. 

“I told him that you were out, and that I had no idea when you would return. He seemed rather upset. Almost desperate. He wanted to go upstairs thinking that it could be a danger night for you or something – but when I mentioned that he no longer lives here and that you were fine the last time I saw you, he didn’t push on the matter. I didn’t mention that I knew that you were out on a date, dear. I thought you didn’t want people infringing on your privacy. Even though he is or rather was your best friend. I thought… that since he hasn’t been around lately, whereas that handsome DI is always hanging about, waiting for you – I figured that you two might have had a falling out with each other. And, you know when Omegas bond with their Alphas, there can be strain between their relationships with other Alphas. So, it’s a reasonable conclusion to come to.”

“Perfect. Mrs. Hudson – you are a wonder! If he returns, just tell him what you told him yesterday.” Sherlock stands up – glad that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned nothing of his personal life to John. “I’ve got to go meet up with Lestrade, and I probably won’t come home tonight. I do promise that we should have a proper tea maybe next week?” He offers, knowing that Mrs. Hudson does genuinely miss him. 

Bending down, he pecks her on one wrinkled cheek.

“Of course, dearie. Have fun for me, tonight.” She gives him a suggestive wink which almost horrifies him in its lewdness. 

Sherlock leaves to go upstairs.


	11. Chapter 11

**XI.**

“Lock! Lock!” Laurie calls – perched high up on Sherlock’s shoulders. “We see Uncle Lestrade?”

Sherlock grins as he walks the streets of Mycroft’s neighbourhood. It is cold out today – giving an appetizer of the winter to come. “Yes, Laurie mine – we are going to see Uncle Lestrade.”

It isn’t by choice that he is bringing Laurie over to see Lestrade. Mycroft and Anthea are both busy and his Omega had asked Sherlock to watch Laurie for the day. Sherlock is loathe to use the word babysit – implying that he is only minimally involved in his son’s life. Alas, Lestrade – once again – is hopelessly out of his depth, and requires Sherlock’s assistance. He has no intention of doing legwork today – only his brain will be for hire. 

“Catch bad man?” Laurie asks.

“Probably not. Identify bad man, yes.”

“And find bad man!” 

“Maybe not today.” Sherlock smiles at the enthusiasm as he pushes open the door to the restaurant. Mycroft would have his hide if Laurie saw or encountered any ‘bad man’.

“Oi – Sherlock, you took your time!” Lestrade greets as Sherlock walks towards the wooden table that he is sitting at. “Beginning to think I was on a date…”

“Well, Griffin, this Alpha is taken.” Sherlock replies, as Gordon exclaims. “You brought a guest! Hullo there – little one!” 

“Uncle Lestrade!” Laurie calls out as Sherlock swings him down from his shoulders and onto a chair. “Uncle Lestrade!”

“Ah – he knows my name! Sherlock – I am incredibly touched.” Lestrade smiles brightly – evidently having had his day made. “And what is your name?” He directs the question to Laurie.

“Laur-ie!” His son chirps, as Sherlock divests himself of his coat and scarf along with his son’s – hanging them on a hook on the adjacent wall. 

“And how old are you?” Lestrade continues to go through the questions everyone likes to ask toddlers. 

“I am one, two – three years old!” Laurie counts with his fingers. 

“Damn, you made a smart and a cute kid. Don’t know where this cuteness comes from… probably the Omega!” 

“Yes indeed, my Omega is very cute.” Sherlock smirks – wondering what would Mycroft be thinking about this topic of conversation. Appalled probably. “Very adorable.” 

“You chose a fancy place for brunch – Sherlock. Not usually my hangout.” Lestrade glances at the menu. 

“Ah, Gio – we have to advance your palate! We can’t keep having fish & chips at some grimy pub every time we meet.” Sherlock grins – rather teasingly. He then turns to Laurie. “Noodle or rice?”

“Noodle!” Laurie exclaims – his blue eyes bright and happy – that he gets to make a decision on his meal. 

“Shrimp or fish?” 

“Shrimp!” 

“Aha – there is fish & chips on this menu, Sherlock!” Lestrade smirks triumphantly. “Although I am tempted to go with the curry udon. That sounds like a perfect dish for this chilly day. And let’s share some appetizers!” 

The server brings over some fine Japanese green tea – which Sherlock sniffs, trying to inhale its heat into his cold body. He then asks Laurie, “Lemonade or apple juice?”

“Apple!” 

“Alright then – Laurie mine, we can order.” Sherlock fondly ruffles his son’s unruly dark curls. 

They place their orders, before Lestrade begins with a quick synopsis of his current case. Sherlock ponders the information that Lestrade gives – mindful that there could be facts missing. The disappearance of a young girl – barely out of her first decade. Anxious parents. No apparent motivation except that the girl’s parents had refused to let her attend a sleepover with two of her best friends. No enemies. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Their appetizers arrive: a mix of fried and grilled tofu, seaweed salad and a plate of vegetable and shrimp tempura. Laurie’s eyes grow wide at the battered shrimp. “Shrimp! Shrimp! Want!”

“Manners – Laurie.” Sherlock gently admonishes – while Lestrade gently rolls his eyes. 

“Shrimp, Lock – please?” Laurie asks, with his best impression of puppy-eyes. 

“Only if you have some seaweed salad, alright?” Sherlock makes a conditional offer.

“Kay!” Laurie agrees as Sherlock picks up his chopsticks and takes a shrimp tempura and dips it into the soy-based sauce and places it on Laurie’s plate. A generous spoonful of seaweed is added to the plate – and his son busies himself with tackling the greens first. “Ooh, slippery!” Laurie exclaims as he pokes at a seaweed tendril with a chopstick.

“He uses chopsticks better than I do!” Gavin remarks, while picking up a piece of tofu with a fork. “Clever boy.”

“The cleverest.” Sherlock smiles fondly at his boy before helping himself to a piece of yam tempura. 

The appetizers steadily disappear, before their mains make an appearance. Sherlock mixes the bowl of udon that Laurie and he would share. He picks up a morsel of duck with his chopsticks and Laurie takes the meat with his mouth – chewing it carefully before swallowing. Sherlock then offers some noodles in the soup spoon – which Laurie slurps down with ease. 

“Yum!”

“You are good at this!” Lestrade finally says after they’ve spent several minutes working on their noodle dishes. “A natural. I am proud of you Sherlock. You just have to keep this up.”

“Believe me, I know.” Sherlock nods solemnly, before he feels his phone vibrate in the pocket of his trousers. 

_ Do you have time to meet today? JW _

_ Like… this afternoon? JW _

_ I really do not. SH _

Mycroft had requested Sherlock to not expose their son to John a few days back. He had been surprised by Mycroft’s apparent dislike for his old flatmate. Is it jealousy? He had wondered – but then again, Mycroft had probably deduced who had ripped his stitches open when he had returned from the dead. Protective instincts. Or because, Mycroft does not trust John. Omegas can be fiercely protective of their offspring. And Sherlock is not willing to risk his brother’s ire, especially so early on in their romantic relationship. Nor will he intentionally break Mycroft’s trust – that had taken him some time and effort to earn.

_ Why ever not? JW _

_ You keep catching me at bad times! SH _

_ You are on a case? JW _

_ Yes. But it’s personal. SH _

_ Am I not good enough to be your assistant now that I am mated? JW _

Argh! Sherlock puts down the phone. He can’t deal with this. 

“What’s wrong?” Lestrade asks concernedly. 

Wordlessly, Sherlock pushes his phone towards George, and the DI examines the exchange. 

“Bollocks, why don’t you go see him?” Lestrade asks.

“My Omega refuses to let me –” 

“Say no more. I remember that bruise on your face. Nasty. And you have the kit with you today – so I suppose he wouldn’t let you bring the kit around him?”

“Precisely.” 

_ It has nothing to do with your bonded status. SH _

_ Fine. I can meet up in the evening, if you can spare that. SH _

_ Fine. I will see what I can do. JW _

Sherlock sighs. A concession. He would rather spend his evening with Mycroft… but he doesn’t want to completely torpedo his relationship with John… 

***

When he first sees John later this evening, the Omega is slouched on his couch – looking like he hadn’t slept for days. He is wearing a loose woolen jumper and a pair of old faded jeans. There is a strange smell in the air that Sherlock cannot deduce, mixed with the perfume of Mary’s predilection – Claire de la Lune. Sherlock notices other things too – that had completely slipped his observational skills during his initial meeting with John – such as the slightly more developed chest – possibly supported by a bra. Clearly – he is still nursing his kit. 

“Ah, so you’ve finally shown up.” John says rather tonelessly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes. And – uh… how are you?”

“How am I?” John laughs. But it is a laughter of exasperation, mixed with perhaps – a tad bit of bitterness. “Exhausted. Rosie. My kit. She was terribly sick the last few days. I am tired.” 

“I can see that.” Sherlock says.

“She’s with one of Mary’s friends tonight. Janine. Got her to babysit at the last moment.” 

“Well. I apologize for the inconvenience.” He shrugs nonchalantly. Sherlock is finding it rather hard to read John. It’s clear that the Omega hasn’t worked for a long time, nor left the flat for at least a week. “So where’s Mary?” He inquires.

“Where is Mary?” John almost grimaces. “Out with her work friends. It’s so-and-so’s birthday, apparently. She’s rather… traditional in her approach to our relationship.”

“Traditional?” Sherlock muses. 

In the old days, the Alpha was the main breadwinner, while the Omega stays at home, looks after the offspring and whelps kits. So… it seems to Sherlock that John looks after Rosie primarily, and Mary comes and goes as she pleases. 

“You haven’t worked…”

“Hell. No. I wish I could. Fuck. She wouldn’t let me. I cannot believe I am saying this – but I am so goddamned bored!” John then sighs deeply. “The Alpha’s Prerogative.”

“Rather backwards.” Sherlock remarks, as John snorts humourlessly. 

“Tell me about it. England is rather archaic in that regard. All the laws were written by Alphas in the centuries past, and change happens at a snail’s pace… if it happens at all.” John – then for the first time since Sherlock had stepped foot into the flat – looks up at him. Eyes narrowing, he undoubtedly had seen Mycroft’s marks on his neck. “My god. That’s why you haven’t had any time to see me.” He draws a deep breath. It is surprisingly shaky. “You are seeing someone. Unbelievable. I thought you were married to your work!”

“As I told you. Things change.” Sherlock says dryly. 

“An Omega.” John deduces – an Omega typically has a sharp nose – able to determine relationship status alone with it.

Sherlock simply nods. The odd smell seems to be getting stronger – like a flower about to bloom… Oh. His eyes widen. “Fuck. John. You are going into heat!” 

“No. I can’t.” John throws his hands against his face in dismay. “Bloody, fucking – hell. It hasn’t even been a year yet since Rosie. Oh – fuck.” A spasm seems to take control over John’s body. 

“I will call Mary.” Sherlock hastily reaches for his trouser pocket – knowing that he keeps Alpha suppressant patches on his person at all times. Lestrade does as well. In their line of work – it’s better to be prepared. He finds one – and with relief, he sticks it on his inner arm after fumbling with the foil wrap – feeling the dampening effects on his libido instantly. 

He reaches for John’s phone – as he does not have Mary’s number – but John knocks it away. It falls to the wooden floor and slides a metre away with the force the Omega uses.

“No. Don’t.” John grunts. “Don’t call her. Sherlock… help me…” There is a desperation in his countenance. “Please. Take the patch off…”

Sherlock takes several steps back – in the direction of the front door – totally taken aback by the turn of events. “John – you aren’t thinking rationally! I am not your Alpha!”

John stands, shakily – and takes one step forward, barely avoiding the coffee table. There is a disturbing mien to his person. He asks, almost playfully coy. “Do you not want me, Sherlock? I felt it at times – you know, before you left. Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” Another step forward. “You know –”

Paralysis seems to have overcome Sherlock. Fucking hell. Did John really feel that way for him before he had left? Or is it just the estrus speaking? Trying to take advantage of the closest available Alpha prick. There are at least two theories of thought here – an Omega becomes delirious in heat and is completely out of their right mind, or heat removes all inhibitions – causing the Omega to act on their most basic impulses. Or perhaps a little bit of the former and latter. His former flatmate’s pupils are now completely blown with arousal, as the symptoms of heat continue to manifest.

Somehow, his legs manage to move – inching slowly towards the door as John approaches. “Come back – Sherlock… don’t be frightened… it’s just se –” 

Grabbing his coat and scarf from the hooks near the door – Sherlock makes a dash for it, slamming the front door loudly behind him. Running down the stairs – he doesn’t stop until he is halfway to Mycroft’s – where he then hails a cab. 

_ Horny as fuck. Need you. SH _

***

When Mycroft opens the door, he is assailed by his Alpha. There is frantic kissing, desperate groping and the clumsy fumbling of clothes. Sherlock hadn’t been kidding about being horny. He arches into Sherlock’s touch – which – despite its freneticism – is still gentle. Then there is the scent! It smells as if his brother had gone into rut. And he notices the patch on his arm – Alpha suppressant. Clearly… it has worn off. 

Good Lord – what the hell happened?

“God. You are here earlier than you said you would be originally.” Mycroft states, after they had managed to break apart for breath – his back at some point had hit the wall of the foyer. 

“There was an unforeseen circumstance.” Sherlock gasps, before proceeding to tackle Mycroft’s scent gland – licking, sucking – and turning Mycroft into a mewling mess. There will be colourful bruises on Mycroft’s neck tomorrow to be worn with pride. 

His Alpha manages a coherent question – clearly with the last vestiges of his cortical functioning. “Brother… may we please talk later?” 

Any coherent thought had long left him. But there is an unpleasant smell that clings onto Sherlock besides the rut – the smell of another Omega. His primitive brain decides to worry about it later, when his Alpha’s nimble fingers are quickly – and impatiently undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. Sherlock nuzzles at his neck – rubbing his cheek against the scent gland. Mycroft just feels – the sensation of his brother’s hands caressing his skin through the fine cotton of his shirt, the affectionate kisses that Sherlock is now peppering onto exposed skin and the delicious warmth of Sherlock’s mouth when his lips close around his Omega cock – applying a perfect amount of pressure with his swirling tongue. 

The slick! Mycroft thinks – but somehow, he can feel the wetness drip from his cloaca – and he groans when Sherlock teasingly brushes his fingertips against the periphery of his hole, before sticking his scissoring digits into the canal. For an Alpha in rut – Mycroft muses – his brother is unexpectedly thoughtful – prioritizing Mycroft’s pleasure over his own by going through the steps of foreplay. Usually, Alphas would be sticking their pricks into whatever orifice they could in this state. He gasps in surprise when Sherlock lifts his half-clothed body into the air with Mycroft’s legs dangling over his arms. 

With one well-aimed thrust – his Alpha takes him – causing his back to hit the wall once more. Mycroft’s legs reflexively wrap tightly around his still clothed brother as Sherlock fucks into him – fast, but steady. There is nothing tender about this sex. The room fills with the sounds of their coupling – the increasingly laboured pants, the occasional thud when Mycroft’s back hits the wall – and the indescribable noises that are wrenched from him when Sherlock allows gravity to impale Mycroft further onto his Alpha cock. Sherlock’s knot doesn’t take this time when he comes with a soft grunt, gushing voluminous spurts of hot cum straight into his canal, triggering Mycroft’s own release.

He clings tightly onto his brother – afraid that Sherlock would drop him in his post-coital haze – but his Alpha gamely holds on, using the foyer wall as support. Now that the edge of the rut had been taken care of, Sherlock is hugging him to his chest – and his gaze is so terribly fond that Mycroft longs to kiss him. So he does. The kiss is slow; their lips brush languorously against one another. Sherlock nips playfully at his lip at the end of their kiss – causing a whine to escape him.

“Sorry, brother mine.” His Alpha’s eyes look apologetically at him.

Mycroft brushes it away. It works both ways – for sometimes rut and heat come on asynchronously in an Alpha/Omega relationship. At least for rut, one quick fuck is typically enough to satisfy it. “These are physiological urges, little brother. I am happy to be the recipient of your uncontained sexual energies.” 

“Mm… not used to it.” Sherlock sighs, finally allowing Mycroft to stand on his own two feet. His Alpha rests his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft reaches up to bury his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, caressing his brother’s scalp – eliciting contented purrs. 

“It happens. But… what brought it on?” Mycroft asks, curious – guiding his brother to the sofa in the living room. On the way, he grabs some tissues to wipe the cum dripping out of his hole away. 

“I finally went to go see John.” Sherlock reveals readily. “I was talking to him… and then I realized he was going into heat.” 

Good Lord… did Dr. Watson do this on purpose? Or is it more of a third-degree, impulsive type of thing? Dr. Watson saw a chance to get with an Alpha that he had once desired – and tried to take it? Mycroft frowns. It is impossible to say. Not that there would be much benefit for him anyways – once an Omega is bonded, the reaction is irreversible. But they are biologically capable of mating with other Alphas. 

However, it is better to let Sherlock reason this out for himself, rather than Mycroft offering his own deductions. 

“He seemed rather distressed that his heat showed up so soon after having the kit. But then, brother – he started coming onto me. I offered to call Mary – but he refused. He actually knocked his phone away.”

“Brother… I don’t know about Dr. Watson…” Mycroft slides his hand down, letting his palm rest on Sherlock’s cheek once they are seated on the sofa. He then spends some time rescenting his brother – needing to get rid of the stench of Dr. Watson in heat on his Alpha’s person. “But if I were in heat – I would only want you – ask for you. No matter how unbearable it was. Heat delirium isn’t enough of an excuse to come onto another Alpha.” 

“I am just very confused.” Sherlock admits – scenting Mycroft in return. “Normally it’s the Alpha’s biological drive that can’t resist an Omega in estrus without a suppressant patch. But – before he went into heat, I did deduce that he is very dissatisfied with his bonded life. The Alpha’s Prerogative – he had said.”

Ah. That piece of antiquated law. In this modern day and age, most Alphas don’t use it – letting their Omegas make decisions or have input on whether they wished to work, be on birth control and how many kits they wished to have. However, since it is still valid – Mycroft is aware that there are Alphas that enforce their decisions upon their mates – and it seems that Mary is one such Alpha to do so. And attempts to strike this law down had met in failure so far in the courts in recent years. 

This is why an Omega must take care to be bonded to the right person.

“Brother – you wouldn’t consider such a thing – would you?” He asks – concerned. 

“Mycroft… what kind of monster do you think I am? No. I would never take your choices away from you. I wouldn’t dare.” Sherlock then winks at him. 

Mycroft leans a little forward to kiss his brother again. “I love you.” He whispers – he had no doubts in terms of what Sherlock’s opinion of the Alpha’s Prerogative is, but it’s nice to hear it in person. 

At most little brother would bring it up to tease him.

“Ditto, big brother mine.” Sherlock smiles. “Where’s Laurie?”

“Went straight to bed after dinner. Didn’t even stay awake for a bedtime story. You seemed to have tired him out quite thoroughly.” 

His little boy had come home in the late afternoon, regaling Mycroft of his adventures with ‘Lock’ and ‘Uncle Lestrade’. The brunch, the playground – where ‘Uncle Lestrade’ had spun him around and around on the colourful roundabout and ‘Lock’ had pushed him high up on the swings before they had a three-person game of tig (where someone is ‘it’ and has to chase the others around) and even a case! 

Mycroft had wanted to scold Sherlock about bringing their son to one – but when Sherlock had explained that Lestrade and he had just looked into a family’s home and found the missing and upset daughter (who wanted to punish her parents!) hiding in a secret room hidden by a cunningly concealed hatch in the ceiling of her room (likely designed by smugglers in another century) – he had decided not to. There had been no blood, no gore, no violence – just something simple and safe but enough to thrill an eager three-year old boy. Although, he hoped that Laurie was too young to get such ideas into his head. He knows that both Sherlock and himself would be both drowning themselves in worry if that naughty girl had been their Laurie. 

“I thought he had fun today.” Sherlock remarks.

“He did. Chattered non-stop about it at dinner.” Then Mycroft asks. “Did you have dinner?”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. 

“There’s some leftover chicken Parmesan that Laurie helped make. And a refreshing vegetable soup with knots of tofu.”

“Sounds delicious. But should we not get you cleaned up first?” Sherlock asks as his stomach makes itself known in a rather loud manner. 

“You are hungry, brother mine. I can live with your dried cum between my thighs. Come on – let’s feed my hardworking Alpha first and then hit the shower.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a case and learns something new about Mary. Meanwhile, Mycroft worries.

**XII.**

_ Sherlock… my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour. I got your number from Dr. Hooper. There is a gravely ill patient that my colleague, Dr. Ahmed Fakhouri, has been rounding on for the past week in the MICU at Bart’s. He has suspicions that the patient’s illness is due to foul play, and to be frank, I am inclined to agree with him that such a thought is a possibility. The problem is… a lack of evidence, a motive and that there are a bunch of other ‘out-there’ medical explanations that could account for our patient’s array of symptoms. Something is just really odd. – Mike Stanford _

_ We discussed the possibility of environmental poisoning with the patient’s spouse and family, and they have agreed to let you have a look. You will have access to all the information without violating any privacy laws and everyone involved is willing to talk. Paperwork has already been done and filed.  _

As Sherlock’s fingers tap rapidly against the screen of his phone to answer, he remarks. “There is something bothering you, Mycroft.” 

_ I am hardly a toxicology consulting service. SH _

_ Do end your text with your initials. SH _

_ A demand, not a suggestion. SH _

It had become routine for the pair of them to spend their evenings together. Occasionally, Sherlock would have a case that would get in the way, but unless if the matter is urgent, or could only be pursued during the night, he would head for Mycroft’s as soon as his Omega gets off work. One of them would acquire or make dinner. There would be dishes to be washed. Playtime with Laurie. Coaxing a reluctant Laurie into the shower and into bed. The usual bedtime routine. And then, the rest depended on their respective moods. Today is a day where they had mutually decided to spend some quiet time together to pursue their own hobbies. 

Mycroft had put down his book (an untranslated volume of  _ Journey to the West _ – an old Chinese classic – it’s the one with Sun Wukong, the Monkey King with the stick, if Sherlock recalls correctly) about five minutes ago on the arm of his favourite armchair. His brows are furrowed, his eyes are staring into space, and his fingers are unusually restless – almost fidgety. Something is up. Likely important. Sensitive. Worrisome.

“It’s… nothing. Little brother.” 

Sherlock presses onwards, unfazed by Mycroft’s brittle lie. “You know… brother, since it is us against the world now, we should be able to talk between ourselves. Especially if it is a matter that is clearly on your mind.”

_ Ah. My dear friend. Ahmed and I are thinking that we are potentially watching a murder slowly unfold in our hands. Text me your availability and I will tell Ahmed to meet you at Bart’s. MS _

Damn. It sounds urgent. Sighing, Sherlock fires his responding text – reluctant to cut short his night with his lover.

_ Fine. I can be there at midnight. SH _

_ Okay. I will give you the pertinent details. MS _

Standing up from the armchair, Mycroft stretches before making his way towards the couch that Sherlock is lying on. Sherlock scoots over a bit, making room for his brother before laying his head back down on his Omega’s lap. Mycroft’s fidgety fingers entwine themselves in Sherlock’s curls – a soothing exercise for the both of them. 

Cautiously, his brother starts with a question. “Do you know who Charles Augustus Magnussen is?” 

“Do I? No. I am afraid… not.” Sherlock replies, running the name against the database of people he’d stored in his memory. “Why should we care?”

“It is a fortuitous thing that you do not, brother dear. I had the misfortune to have to deal with this ghastly excuse of a human being several times. He was a media mogul, a savvy businessman. Had many powerful connections in the Western world – and perhaps fingers in several pies in the Eastern half. He had a nasty habit…” Mycroft pauses for a bit.

Sherlock waits patiently, sighing contently as those digits of his brother’s pull deliciously at his locks. He could lie here all day and not get bored. 

“Of blackmailing. He had a hobby of collecting ‘information’ and using it to put pressure on what he liked to call his ‘assets’ to make them ‘dance’. There was nothing he liked better than finding someone’s pressure point.”

“Ah. And you are speaking in the past tense…?” Sherlock muses, picking up the subtlety. 

“He was found dead this morning. Shot in his office through the forehead. .22 calibre revolver. Textbook perfect assassination. No footage of the incident or of the assassin's comings or goings could be found. All security features were disabled in the room.” His brother continues, in a rather technical manner. “Like they were never there. A spectre.” 

“Pardon me for saying this, Mycroft… but good riddance to blackmailing rubbish!” Sherlock says, with vehemence. There was no element of criminality that he hated more than the blackmailer. Well, aside from pedophiles. He then asks with concern. “Were you ever under his thumb?”

Mycroft sighs deeply. “He’s tried to over the years. One of many who has tried to usurp me from my position as a minor government official.” There’s almost a smirk on his Omega’s face. Sherlock finds it a mix of cute… and dangerous. “But, brother mine. That’s not my concern. My question is who killed him. The man kept most of his knowledge up here, in his brain.” Mycroft taps at his forehead. “But, there was a USB left on the table.” Here his brother trails off once more, looking incredibly hesitant. “It’s in my posession now, after my agents ransacked his office this morning and dealt with his body accordingly after a quick autopsy.” 

“What was on the stick?” Sherlock asks, curiously. 

“Brother. I took a brief glance, as the Prime Minister insisted on keeping me occupied with nonsense for the rest of my dreary day. But… do you mean it?” Mycroft’s face suddenly grows gravely solemn.

“Mean what?” The bewilderment comes through in Sherlock’s voice.

“That it is us against the world?” Mycroft clarifies. 

“Mm… Of course. You and Laurie will always be my priority, lover mine.”

“That wasn’t always true.” His brother says, more quietly – and… perhaps more sadly? It somewhat tears at Sherlock. 

The guilt still gnaws on him occasionally; his brother has always had his back (although sometimes his methods were questionable) while Sherlock had been the impulsive and self-destructive brat. For fuck sakes, he had even betrayed Mycroft (and the country!) for some stupid game with an Alpha woman and look at him now – happily being petted by his brotherly lover. 

“For what it matters, it’s true now.” And forever. Sherlock sits up and leans over to give his Omega a quick reassuring peck. No one or thing will come between them now. 

His brother’s fingers rise upwards to touch the spot where Sherlock had kissed. “Good. That’s… good.” Mycroft offers a little smile with his words. 

“Now, what was on there? You are making me terribly curious.” 

“Ah. The daring exploits of an ex-assassin for hire. American. Formerly CIA. Worked a stint for our mutual late friend, Mr. Moriarity. Ms. Madeline Ravens…”

It doesn’t take a genius to see where his brother is going. For it is Mycroft’s reluctance that informs Sherlock of the nature of his revelation. It’s understandable why his Omega seems so tentative to inform Sherlock. It makes his relationship with John (which is already pretty fucking complicated) even more convoluted. 

He finishes his Omega’s thought. “Potentially, she is the woman that we know as Mrs. Mary Morstan?”

“Possible. Perhaps I can confirm it with a more detailed examination of the contents of the USB. But I suspect that this working hypothesis would be true. The other question, Sherlock – is why was this USB left on the desk? If Mrs. Morstan ended Magnussen’s life, I am sure she isn’t stupid enough to leave such a treasure trove of incriminating information behind on the desk. She certainly has motive, don’t get me wrong… but my money is that someone else had a bone to pick with Magnussen, and also a grudge against Dr. Watson’s wife? But who?”

“The problem is, Mycroft, women like Ravens and men like Magnussen have way too many enemies – both unsavoury and in official governmental positions – that would be all too happy to have them removed permanently from this world.” Sherlock observes, thoughtfully. “But… brother – you are worried about me!?” 

“There is someone that appears to have it out for the late Ms. Ravens, and I am afraid by association, there may be trouble. Danger. Perhaps pressure points… it depends on our assassin’s  _ modus operandi _ .”

“Oh… god… Mycroft. You are worried for Laurie’s sake. Aren’t you?” 

His brother only nods. His eyes also say:  _ and yours. _

Sherlock throws his arms affectionately around Mycroft, nuzzling his face against Mycroft’s scent gland, calming them both down with pleasurable biochemistry. 

“It could also be likely, Sherlock – that our errant assassin was a part of Moriarty’s men. Likely high up the food chain.” His Omega’s breath is tickling against Sherlock’s face.

“But we killed them all? Didn’t we?” Sherlock asks, suddenly feeling very sick to his stomach. 

“Ah, brother – if you can rise from the dead, others can as well.” 

“But – you missed the best possibility – Magnussen could have been planning to ‘put the pressure’ on John’s wife, and had the USB made up to threaten her with it. And then – our assassin broke in and shot him.” Sherlock offers another possibility.

“Sherlock, I wish so, but from the scene, it appears that the meeting between Magnussen and the assassin was prearranged. That the two knew each other. There is nothing to suggest that the murderer surprised Magnussen in the room. It seems unlikely that Magnussen would have a USB stick out about someone unrelated to the issue.”

“Maybe he was going to meet with Mary, but someone else showed up instead...”

“Perhaps – we will never know. But, Sherlock – please – for all of our sakes, do not look into this. Do not confront Mary with what we possibly know. If you want to assuage your curiosity, we can even look at the contents of the USB together. Let my agents handle this. The chances are that we will have to watch and wait to see what is really going on here.” 

“Fine. I will pretend I don’t know anything.” Sherlock responds, a long minute later. 

It will be hard, but he had learned how to curb his impulses and his mouth during his travels to dismantle Moriarity’s network. Like Mycroft – he is curious, but he understands the wisdom of it all. If Mary ever suspects that Sherlock knows who she truly is – she would feel threatened and will no doubt return to ply her old trade in killing. It is unlikely that this particular leopard would have her spots changed in such a few short years. Perhaps… she even misses it.

“Bed?” Sherlock asks, his arm now slung around his brother’s shoulder. “I will have to be gone at eleven…” 

Mycroft sighs. A disappointed little noise. They had gotten used to sleeping together. “Lestrade?” His Omega inquires as they both stand up.

“No, Stanford is worried about a potential murder in a medical intensive care unit at Bart’s. The MICU – he called it. I will go check it out tonight to see if it’s worth pursuing. And then I will see Geoff tomorrow... I don’t think he has a case though. He’s off.”

“A case of a lonely cop wanting to hang out?” Mycroft deduces, sounding wistful. No doubt wishing that he could spend a weekday uninterrupted with Sherlock.

“Perhaps. I don’t mind.” Sherlock shrugs. He’d grown to rather like his hours with Godfrey. The man isn’t as boring as he had once thought he was. Or maybe he’s just getting old. His adventures during his ‘death’ had rather aged him. And had given him more patience than he had left with.

They stop by Laurie’s room first, watching their son sleep peacefully in his toddler-sized bed – decorated with all sorts of  _ The Lego Movie  _ merchandise. His dear little arms are wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s old scarf and the furry wolf plushie that he had bought him. Sherlock would re-scent these constant bed companions every few days for Laurie. 

Damn. How could two difficult men like themselves create such a dear sweet innocent creature? Sherlock muses for the umpteenth time. Just before they turn to leave, Sherlock vows quietly under his breath – that he will not permit any harm befall his Omega or his kit. 

For woe betide anyone who dares.

***

Mycroft worries as he kicks the door open to the bedroom, his hands cupping Sherlock’s cheeks before kissing him fiercely. His brother’s fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt while Mycroft steers him backwards in the dark. Pushing his Alpha onto their bed, Mycroft reaches over to flick on the nearby lamp, bathing their immediate space in a warm glow. Sherlock’s dark locks are already curling everywhere in an endearing mess. His bright eyes look up into Mycroft’s own, dilated with arousal, but softened with sentiment. Pink lips swollen from hungry kisses that they had shared. God, this scene seems to be straight out the fantasies that Mycroft had over the long years where his brother had been gone. He buries his face against his brother’s scent gland, as his fingers work to remove Sherlock’s clothing, as well as his own shirt.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock gasps when Mycroft’s teeth scrape across the delicate skin of his neck, leaving yet another possessive mark. 

It has become an addiction. The act of taking his Alpha-brother apart; of leaving the tangible evidence of his love behind for everyone else to see; the privilege of simply loving him. Fuck, how he loves him. Beyond reason. His palms brush against the soft bared skin of Sherlock’s chest, before worshiping his way down to his brother’s Alpha cock – rising slightly from its thatch of dark curls. 

Some days, Mycroft pinches himself during the times they make love – because it seems too wonderful to be real. Too fantastical to last forever. A dream. The troubling rumblings of assassins running amok in London does not help with his anxiety. But the decadent musk of his brother is in his nose and the taste of him is in his mouth as he sucks part of his brother’s furry scrotum into his mouth – grounding him to reality. Not to mention the unrestrained sounds of appreciation his brother makes, or the conditioned moan that escapes involuntarily out of him when Mycroft opens the tube of artificial slick with an audible  _ snick. _

“God… Mycroft… please…” The words are beginning to sound incoherent, even more so when Mycroft’s slick-coated finger playfully teases the periphery of his brother’s hole. “You awful tease… My…”

Should he take his brother, or should he ride him? So many considerations. So many permutations. Sherlock wouldn’t mind whatever Mycroft chooses, he’s usually happy to let him do the work. Typical. His slick-covered digit makes the decision for him when it slips into his Alpha’s tight orifice – working him open with care. His tongue and another finger join, drawing animalistic noises from Sherlock. With his free hand, he fumbles with his own trousers – freeing his own hard cock from its confines. Standing – with Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his back – he lines up his organ and firmly pushes in – gasping at the tight grip that Sherlock’s muscles have on his glans – sinking in further into the warm welcoming orifice. He doesn’t miss the look on Sherlock’s face at the moment of penetration. So vulnerable. So trusting. So damned gorgeous. Cautiously, he thrusts – fighting the urge to spend. 

“My dear. How I adore you. How much I adore you.” Mycroft breathes, unable to hold back his sentiment. “How I missed you when you were gone. How I miss you always when you aren’t by my side.” 

“My… croft…” His brother manages, looking at him still so intensely with those expressive eyes of his. “I need you too.” 

“We aren’t bonded, but in so many ways I feel that we already are.” Mycroft whispers – breaching another topic that they’ve never actively talked about. 

And it’s true. The ache he feels in his chest whenever Sherlock isn’t with him seems to get worse by the day. There is a recently developed intuition that he has whenever Sherlock is nearby – he always seems to know whenever Sherlock plans to surprise him at Whitehall for lunch, and he always plans accordingly. Be it canceling meetings, throwing out tedious visitors, or anticipating and finishing the next silly task the Prime Minister would require him to do in order to leave his lunch hour free. It always throws Sherlock so deliciously off-kilter, when he sees that Mycroft had already set up his desk for their lunch. He doesn’t know what kind of dimension being bonded would add to their relationship, but it would tie them together in a way beyond either of their wildest imaginings. 

“I want it.” Sherlock says fiercely, skipping over several other sentences in the conversation – cutting to the chase. 

Mycroft replies by leaning over and kissing his brother into silence. He doesn’t need to ask for what Sherlock wants as it is written clearly in every line of his body. “Touch yourself.” He whispers when he feels that he’s about to come – having been brought to the brink when Sherlock had voiced his own desire to be Mycroft’s, and his brother’s hand reaches over to frig his own prick. Mycroft ejaculates with a shudder, sending his spurt of fluid deep into his brother’s arse. A spray of copious hot and sticky cum covers them both when Sherlock reaches his own peak. 

“Love you.” Mycroft utters as he collapses next to Sherlock, sated. “I wish I could knot you, darling.” 

“Mm… I heard there wasn’t anything like it. Being knotted by an Alpha.” Sherlock smiles fondly at him. “I do love knotting you, though.” 

“Your hair is an absolute disaster.” Mycroft says teasingly, after a few moments had passed to let them both catch their breaths, his fingers reaching over to bring some order to the chaos. 

“Thanks, brother dear. Your work, as always.” Sherlock smirks. 

Mycroft grins. “Just to show the world that you are an Alpha with all your baser needs satisfied. That you are well-looked after.”

“You are just possessive.” Sherlock rolls over slightly to nuzzle against Mycroft’s scent gland.

“And you aren’t?”

“I love you.” Sherlock says instead. He then adds; his passion apparent in every syllable. “I want this. I want you. I want everything with you, Mycroft… You make me want things that I never thought that I could have ever wanted.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft whispers, touched beyond what he could ever express. 

It is true for him as well. Laurie would not exist if it were not for Sherlock. Mycroft had never thought that he would ever have – let alone want a child. Alas, his son is his pride and joy; the ultimate fruit that had blossomed from their love. He will bond with his brother at the next possible opportunity, because every second that slips by is wasted time.

For once in his life, he cannot wait for his heat to arrive.

***

“Ah, Mr. Holmes – I am glad you have come.” Dr. Ahmed Fakhouri greets him in a messy office – papers, periodicals and binders strewn everywhere. 

Like his colleague, Mike – Dr. Fakhouri possesses a jovial attitude, although there is a mixed look of relief and concern on his face at seeing Sherlock. He wears a simple checkered shirt, two pens clipped onto a pocket and a pair of dark trousers and respectable looking shoes. His bald head reflects the fluorescent lighting from the ceiling. The intensivist had clearly just arrived – having caught a few winks in his own bed after indulging in a meal of greasy fish & chips. Would get along with Lestrade… judging by that Arsenal scarf that hangs on the wall.

“It’s Sherlock.” He returns the firm handshake. “No doubt you were enjoying your sleep at home?”

The man actually beams. “Call me Ahmed. It seems that you are as good as they say. But – Sherlock… I am at my wits’ end with this patient of mine. He would improve from a clinical standpoint… but then when you least expect it – there would be an exacerbation! And it was one such worsening episode that landed him in my ICU! It makes me think about things I never want to think of – factitious! You know – what they used to call Munchausen’s – where the patient makes up complaints, exaggerates their symptoms or makes themself sick for the attention of us. They do things like – inject fecal matter into their blood! Yes – people are crazy!” At Sherlock’s polite nod – for people are indeed crazy, Ahmed continues. “Of course, our gentleman Alpha is too sick to do that – so then I think – factitious by proxy! But then – I was talking to Mike the other day – and I thought – wait… what about murder? Because, I am thinking that this has gone way too far for a little attention.”

Sherlock gestures for Ahmed to stop. “Hang on – you are telling me this story from the wrong end. I don’t want to know what you are thinking. I want to know the facts.”

“The facts.” Ahmed pulls out a stapled medical report and pushes it towards Sherlock. “You can keep that. Just shred it when you no longer need it. But the facts are the following. We have a Mr. Leonard Robinson. He goes by Len or Leo, depending on who you ask. He is a thirty-eight year old Alpha male. No previous medical history. Healthy and hale as a horse. Triathlete who doesn’t even smoke! He showed up to the emergency with his Omega with the chief complaint being unable to breathe. His wife said they were engaged in some horseplay of the bedroom variety, and suddenly he started gasping for air with his lips turning blue. She called 999 and EMS brought them here, to Bart’s. According to the emergency doc who assessed him initially – I went to go speak to him directly – Mr. Robinson’s throat had swollen, impeding his ability to breathe. In absence of better information, it was treated like a severe allergic reaction and the patient was able to breathe better minutes afterwards.”

Sherlock listens as Ahmed talks, learning that the patient had been admitted to the hospital floor to look for a diagnosis. Over the course of days, the patient developed rashes – pointing to allergies before some imaging of the man’s chest had led to the discovery of scarring in the lungs. Further investigation suggested the man had interstitial pulmonary fibrosis – a damaging condition to the lungs that typically happened to sixty-year old men. A condition that could kill in two or three years. It could happen randomly, but at such a young age… there should be a cause. And then, one day out of the blue – the patient started having tingling and burning sensation in his arms and legs, vomiting – and once again he could not breathe. 

“Anesthesiology trached him then. Couldn’t get a tube down his throat, so they had to slit his throat to create an airway to hook him up to the ventilator. He got moved to the ICU. Ah – and that was when I first met him and his distraught Omega. The floor doc who transferred the patient over to me was in absolute bafflement, as the patient had been showing signs of improvement before that episode. Alas – here we have it. Any questions?” 

“So…” Sherlock takes a moment to skim the report, noting the symptoms and number of exacerbations the patient had experienced. With care, he files away in his head the diagnoses that have already been ruled out and the lab results. He thinks, playing with several ideas before focusing on what is likely to be the most probable explanation. “There must be something setting off your patient’s exacerbations. Instead of the fecal matter you had mentioned, I am thinking heavy metal toxicity. The burning and tingling sensations. The vomiting. But the lungs?” 

Ahmed pulls up the patient’s chest images on the desktop and Sherlock marvels at how much damage is present to the lungs. He wouldn’t be surprised if the patient needs a lung transplant at the end of all of this… if he survives that is. 

“Inhaled.” Sherlock deduces the route of poisoning.

He sits for another while in his meditative trance. He needs to find the poison. The people who are in the victim’s room during the times when things got worse. This person fancies himself or herself an intelligent murderer. Sherlock thinks. So brazen to continue poisoning their victim in the hospital. So it must be something easy to hide. There are certainly interesting points in this case. And considering how bold this poisoner had become… the time is ticking for Mr. Len. 

Jumping up, he says. “I will help you. But we must be quick. We are dealing with a most cold-blooded murderer if the facts are correct. I will need to talk to everyone involved.” 

“Thank you, Sherlock. You are doing us such a big favour. Right now we are treating him as if he has lupus with some anti-inflammatory agents, but he’s not improving. If you can even give an inkling of what type of poison is involved, we could at least empirically try something to reverse it.” Ahmed says with utmost gratefulness while passing him another sheet of paper with all the contact information of the patient’s family and friends. “Text me or Mike if you need anything.”

Sherlock leaves, folding the papers that Ahmed had given him into his shirt pocket. He would first go scout out the patient’s room.

***

“Sherlock! You scared me!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims when Sherlock had entered his flat during the wee hours of the morning.

His landlady has a rainbow-patterned feather duster in her hand and is busy brushing the dust off Sherlock’s furnishings. It is evident that Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed early, and had woken up barely an hour ago – maybe around 4 AM. 

He remarks, amusedly. “I do live here, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“No you don’t.” She shakes her head. “Only in name these days.”

“Perhaps.”

“Things are serious.” Mrs. Hudson says; she had stopped dusting and her shrewd eyes are scanning Sherlock’s person for tells. “Well, they ought to be if you had a kit with the Omega. If I was your Mummy – god forbid – I would have taken the paddle to your irresponsible bottom.”

“But, Mrs. Hudson – I didn’t even know about the kit!” At her stern glance, he falters and concedes – happy to give voice to his thoughts about Mycroft. How he wanted to just climb the rooftops and yell that he’s in love with his brother for everyone to hear. “I want to bond with him. I would have bonded with him had I known about his condition. I… love him. I thought about him a lot, you know – when I was dead. And I adore my kit…” 

“Well, as long as you are making an honest Omega out of your lover, I will lay off with the paddle.”

“My bottom is forever grateful for your leniency, Mrs. Hudson.” 

Sherlock wonders about what Mycroft would think about his landlady’s attempts to defend his honour. Touched? Offended? His brother is a strong and independent man who could live without an Alpha… could he? That is true, but nevertheless, he wants Sherlock. And that is a miracle in itself.

Before he heads to his room to grab fresh clothes for a shower, Mrs. Hudson says. “Just letting you know – Sherlock – that you had two visitors two nights ago. John’s Alpha came first. I told her you were gone, and she was annoyed for a minute before she shrugged it off and left. Very peculiar – I thought. An hour later, John came by. I didn’t tell him that his Alpha had called earlier. The poor dear seemed rather distraught that you weren’t home. I tried to make some idle conversation, but he shut down. Trouble in paradise – I think?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock shrugs – not wanting to talk about the hot mess that is currently the Morstans. It reminds him too much of the cloak-and-dagger games he played during his time away. If he had wanted that to become his life, he would have accepted Mycroft’s offers to work exclusively for him ages ago. “I am not too sure. I haven’t really kept too many tabs on what’s been going on with John since I came back. It’s been busy and complicated. But – Mrs. Hudson – thank you for telling me.”

“Anytime, dearie. Please do bring your kit by sometime!”

“I will if I am allowed to!” Sherlock escapes into his bedroom.

What does Mary want? What does John want after that horrible evening that had caused Sherlock to make a run for it? He doesn’t know. Neither had texted him. John hasn’t attempted to call or message him since his heat. There is also a poisoner on the loose in Bart’s – and after talking to the patient’s Omega who was by her Alpha’s bedside at midnight – he has a strong inkling that she is involved somehow. 

There had been just a little something in her eyes that suggested she had enjoyed their conversation – while playing the role of the distraught wife. He had known that look that she had thrown at him as he was leaving the room – how many clients did he have over the years that fancied themselves intelligent enough to be able to pull the wool over the great Sherlock Holmes’ eyes? Too many. Arrogance – a careless trait in wrongdoers. But he still needs a poison, a motive and to see the rest of the players in this case. 

Tread carefully, he must – if he is to prevent murder.

He sends texts to both Ahmed and Mike.

_ Let me know if the patient has any episodes of worsening symptoms and please note who is in the room with him during these exacerbations. SH _

An unsanctioned house-visit may be necessary. 

But first, a shower and a quick nap.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspects. A playdate. Conversations.

**XIII.**

“What in the world is killing you, Len?” Sherlock muses, sitting on the windowsill of the otherwise empty ICU room. With one hand, he absentmindedly bounces an oversized grey-and-red tennis ball on the ground that someone else had left in the room. 

The Alpha – Mr. Leonard Robinson – does not answer; a quiet and frail entity amidst the beeping machines. His chest rises and falls; his breaths forced into his badly scarred lungs by the ventilator that sits next to his bed. He doesn’t look any sicker than when Sherlock had seen him last – almost ten hours ago. The man isn’t even attempting to breathe over the vent – which Ahmed had mentioned earlier that the Alpha had been doing so the previous morning. 

Not a promising sign…

Motives. 

Sherlock quickly reviews them in his head. Money. Len has it – a vast sum inherited from his recently deceased grandfather. With it, he had proceeded to quit his job as a stockbroker almost a year ago. His spouse would inherit upon his death. Then, there had been the presence of a confusing bank statement that Sherlock had found at the couple’s house earlier this morning. The diversion of funds from his personal bank account to an unidentifiable one over the past several months. Hidden in a drawer in Len’s study, there had been pictures. A picture of Len piggybacking a child slightly older than Laurie – a little boy that bore a strong resemblance to Len. As far as Sherlock knows – the couple does not have children. Infidelity? And another photograph of Len with his arm around another man’s shoulder. The two men had been close enough for Sherlock to deduce that they had known each other well. An Omega. Puzzling. And then there had been the medications in the kitchen cupboard. Antihypertensives. Rheumatoid arthritis medications. Metformin. Viagra. From what Sherlock understands, neither the Alpha or the Omega have any preexisting health conditions that necessitates the use of such drugs.

His phone buzzes.

_ When are you coming to pick up Laurie? Anthea _

Just as Sherlock is poised to answer, the door to Len’s room slides open. His nose informs that this is Melanie – Len’s spouse. Her blonde curls fall flawlessly down her shoulders. Trendy clothes. All brand names. A fancy handbag; today, a checkered Prada. Heels that announce her presence wherever she goes. Makeup is smudged a tad – she had cried recently. Hadn’t slept much the previous night. Like Len, she had quit her job recently as a postdoctoral fellow at UCL. Had gone home and left before Sherlock had done his housebreaking. She rolls her eyes disdainfully at Sherlock as she enters. 

_ Give me an hour. I need to talk to someone. SH _

_ Please be quick. I do have to sit in on a meeting at around 1:30. Anthea _

_ I will try my best. SH _

“You are still here.” Melanie starts the conversation after almost a minute of silence – where each waited for the other to speak first. “Should you not be out, sleuthing?” She asks – barely concealing her sarcasm. “Still think he’s being murdered?” 

“Everyone has their own methods.” Sherlock shrugs – he had never mentioned to Melanie that he had suspected possible homicide. “And – why, pray tell, do you think my working hypothesis is murder?”

“Why else would they consult you? You aren’t a doctor. You solve murders –”

“No. I solve  _ problems _ . Lost items. Missing children. Kidnappings. Threats. Sometimes a murder. Or my favourite – a locked-room mystery. Your husband – I can see that you two are married, but not bonded – could very well be a victim of environmental pollution. Or maybe – it is lupus – who knows?” Sherlock motions nonchalantly, now throwing the ball against the wall – away from the medical equipment. “But, it’s curious – is it not? That an Alpha and an Omega would be married like a pair of Betas – and not bonded? It almost –”

“How could you even tell?” The Omega drops elegantly into an armchair – her demeanour changes. She appears to be on the verge of tears. “No one else knows. Not even my parents or my brother. I use makeup to draw a bond mark whenever I go out in public. Less questions that way. It was Len’s idea that we shouldn’t bond. There’s no way out – and he said that we should be together because we want to be – not ensnared by a chemical bond. Free will. He said.”

“It’s my job to know these things…” 

Most of the time, an Alpha and an Omega’s scent would change perceptibly with bonding – but the skilled use of colognes, sprays and perfumes could be used to mask it. And for Melanie – she smells strongly of her preferred perfume –  _ La Nuit de Bohème _ . But Sherlock wonders – is it because of her bond status that she uses this fragrance so heavily, or is it just something she does? Mary. Or rather Ms. Ravens. He thinks suddenly – and her liberal use of  _ Claire de la Lune _ . Interesting. And it seems that there is something else that Melanie wants to say – but she holds back. He then adds another deduction. “But you didn’t agree…”

“No. Of course not. I love him, Mr. Holmes.” A fierce possessive look takes over her countenance, despite her tears. “Every Omega dreams of the moment – you know. Where they are bonded to the one he or she loves. The ultimate –” She pulls out a tissue from her purse and starts dabbing her eyes. “I just want him back.” 

“But of course.” Sherlock places the ball on the windowsill, feeling rather awkward about her tears. “Well – I will leave you now.” He strides out – only to see another Alpha make his way toward the room. 

“Oi – you are that detective!” The burly Alpha gestures to him. A lion of a man complete with a shaggy red mane. Likes and plays rugby. An accountant. Dressed rather shabbily in a pair of trousers and a wrinkled shirt. This must be Richard Malkin – who goes by ‘Dickie’ – Len’s best friend. “A word?” 

Sherlock leads him into the ICU’s storage room after punching in the code. 

“What can help you with – Mr. Malkin?”

“I just wanted to know how your investigation is coming along. Those damned steroids that those docs gave for Len’s supposed lupus aren’t doing anything!”

“I am still gathering data. And it is too soon to say anything. But I have a few questions. Does Len or Melanie take any medication?”

“No. They are perfectly healthy from what I know before this nonsense. Maybe vitamins and things like that. Len is a health nut – he’s always trying to rope me into doing a triathlon with him – but man! That’s too much!” 

“Is there anyone in their family that has high blood pressure? Diabetes? Arthritis?”

The Alpha scratches his head. “I know Melanie’s Mum’s got a terrible case of the arthritis. She was complaining about that – about how she has to go with her Mum to all her doctor’s appointments, her annoyance when the company who made the medication her Mum takes stopped supplying it – and on top of that she’s got high blood pressure and diabetes. Man – that old lady might have every issue under the sun – but let me tell you that she’s a dragon! One of those creatures who will never keel over. Like the Queen! She will be here and the rest of us will be gone.” He then asks, “What’s that got to do with Len – anyhow? You aren’t a hoax aren’t you? Like those bloody –”

“Mr. Malkin. I do have my own reasons for asking these questions.” Damn – these suspects are getting on his nerves! “How was Len and Melanie’s relationship?”

“Lovey-dovey for one. Mel’s a sweet dear.” He then looks at Sherlock suspiciously. “Certainly you don’t suspect her – don’t you?” He sounds horrified. “There’s no way she could have –”

“Mr. Malkin – you are jumping to conclusions.” Sherlock sighs loudly – the thought of a love-triangle is starting to form in his mind. “As of now, I suspect no one.” 

“Sorry. I just… can’t. Len and I – we go way back. Best mates. I just can’t believe it. And poor, poor Mel!”

“And just one more question. Did Len ever date another Omega – and does he have any children?”

“Oh Len! He wouldn’t cheat. That I know. The only other Omega he was ever close with was his brother. Tom. Tommy we all used to call him. But I wouldn’t bring up his name with anyone else in the family. He’s been a persona non-grata for years – even after his death! Druggie, you know. Stole money from the family – sweet kid the few moments he was actually sober. Only Len would help him out. And it caused a lot of friction between Mel and him – I am not going to lie.” The Alpha then sighs. “She was relieved when Tommy passed – as horrible as it sounds.” He pauses and then he asks. “Is that all?”

“You’ve been most enlightening.” Sherlock nods, and Mr. Malkin walks out of the room. 

_ Coming now. Did Laurie eat? SH _

_ Yes. He had half of Mycroft’s egg salad sandwich. Anthea _

On a whim, he texts.

_ And what did my brother eat? SH _

Sliding off the counter, Sherlock leaves the room. Before he heads out of the ICU, he notices Dickie in the fishbowl-like ICU room, with his strong arm around Melanie – consoling her. Her head leans against the lion’s broad shoulder.

Hm… he wonders. 

When he gets on a cab – he receives Anthea’s answering text.

_ Nothing. He said he wasn’t hungry. Anthea _

_ Sorry. I am just not used to you caring about your brother’s welfare. Anthea _

_ I suppose I deserve that. SH _

_ Yes. You do. Anthea _

***

“Lock! Lock!” Laurie runs up to Sherlock when he enters Anthea’s domain – his arms hugging Sherlock’s knee. “You here!”

“Yes. That’s right!” Sherlock swings the little boy up with his free arm. “How’s daddy?” He asks – before planting a kiss on his son’s cheek. 

“Busy. People go in. People come out. An say no bug daddy!” 

Laurie cannot say Anthea’s name properly, so he calls her ‘An’. The ‘th’ in her name has proven tricky for his three-year old tongue. 

“Well, let’s go in now. Laurie.” Sherlock nods at Anthea in greeting, before Mycroft’s solid office door opens, revealing an annoyed Lady Smallwood. Her heels click noisily as she leaves, not sparing one glance for either Sherlock, Laurie or Anthea. “What got her all pissy?” Sherlock asks – noting that his brother looks absolutely exhausted. Before he sits down on one of the visitor’s chairs, he closes the door carefully behind him and takes off Laurie’s as well as his own coat and scarf. He hangs them on a coat stand located in the corner of Mycroft’s office.

“I just threw her out. Damn.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow – his brother swearing?!? And then Laurie chirps. “Damn, Dam! Damn!” 

“I see that I am not the one who is teaching our child to talk like a sailor.” 

“Ha. You brought food? Did Anthea ‘snitch’ as the youth call it these days?”

“Was she hitting on you again – brother?” Sherlock finally puts down the bag of takeaway – feeling slightly annoyed on his Omega’s behalf.

Mycroft takes out the clear plastic bowl holding pho (rice noodles, herbs, bean sprouts and beef in a broth) and pulls out the two chopsticks. He tosses one to Sherlock – who catches it, and he opens the lid – releasing the tantalizing aroma into the air. Sherlock helps himself to a crispy spring roll, and offers Laurie a bite.

“Surprisingly no. She was anxious, brother mine. About our friend Magnussen. Apparently he had sensitive information on her –”

“God. Brother – you don’t think she did it?” Sherlock uses the lid as a plate to hold his share of noodles, before pouring a bit of the hoisin and chili sauces for seasoning. 

“No. I did consider it. But I told her that I found nothing. And that’s the truth. She kept insisting that there was something – and it was – to be frank… driving me insane. Magnussen kept his information in his brain, and would only bring out physical evidence when needed. But – anyways, brother – thanks for lunch. I just felt nauseated looking at that sandwich that Anthea brought for me, although Laurie enjoyed the half he ate.”

Sherlock nods. “I didn’t know what to get to tempt your appetite. Thought about Fish & Chips…”

“Fish and Chips! Fish and Chips! I want!” Laurie exclaims – still sitting in Sherlock’s lap. 

“Not today, Laurie. Another day.” He placates his son by offering another crispy spring roll. “But I didn’t know if you weren’t feeling up to grease, so I got you something soupy instead.” 

“Thank you, dearest mine.” Mycroft uses the plastic spoon to sip at the broth. “I would have gone and grabbed the dishes and silverware… but I am far too tired – and the Prime Minister wants to meet in fifteen minutes from now. I am sorry that I don’t have any more time to –”

“No, Mycroft – I just wanted to make sure you ate something. That’s all. And to spend some time with you. I will need to go see Lestrade in a bit – anyways. Can’t you believe that the man wants to meet up at a playground!” 

“Laurie would like that.” Mycroft gives a small smile. 

“Playground! With Uncle Lestrade! Yay!” Laurie jumps off Sherlock’s lap and runs around the desk to Mycroft. “Can we have dessert later?”

“You are having too many sweets – Laurie.” Mycroft says sternly his son. 

“My – it’s okay. I will look after him. And Lestrade will too. And I won’t let him have too many sweets…” Sherlock sighs inwardly – wondering if Mycroft’s caution in limiting Laurie’s sweets intake has something to do with his rotundness as a child. Their grotesque relatives would always refer to his brother as the chubby one while Sherlock had always been the troublemaker.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Mycroft had presented as an Alpha – where no one would have cared about his weight – but as an Omega – the societal ideal is being slender and thin. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised at all if the majority of Omegas seen in mass media are anorexic – or at the minimum – close to it. He then adds. “Mycroft – when you finish with everything today – please go home and sleep. Don’t wait up for me –”

“I look ghastly, don’t I?” 

“You look gorgeous, but tired. Anxious even.”

“You don’t need to lie for my benefit, Sherlock…”

“Mm’not lying. Mycroft.” Sherlock gets up, having finished eating. 

Taking the same path that Laurie had used earlier, he walks around the desk to his brother and wraps his arms around his Omega’s shoulders. He whispers in Mycroft’s ear. “Darling. I wish there was something I could do to convince you that my compliments are not untruths. I love you, My. More than anything. And I will always want you. I promise. My gorgeous, Omega.” He leans forward, brushing his lips gently against Mycroft’s stubbly cheek. 

Mycroft looks at him, his eyes bright with affection. “My Alpha.” He says – his voice quiet. “I will… see you later then. Somehow – I think you will be busy tonight…” There is a melancholic touch to his tone, and Sherlock bends down further to kiss him – this time on the lips. 

***

“Hullo, Gerry – who is this?” 

Sherlock quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at the off-duty DI, whose hand is holding that of a young girl – no older than five. Laurie looks curiously over at the taller raven-haired child in a pair of jeans and a baby-blue coat, who immediately bends down to Laurie’s height and sticks out her hand in a friendly way. Laurie looks up at Sherlock – for reassurance. Sherlock nods. His little boy grasps the girl’s hand in a firm handshake.

“I am Naomi – you are?”

“Laur-ie!” His son exclaims, brightly. “I am three!” 

“I am four!” She replies – and Sherlock watches with amusement as the two scramble toward the colourful roundabout without another shared word. 

Clearly they have a mutual favourite playground apparatus. “Daddy! Spin us!” Naomi demands, once she is on the platform – and Lestrade shares a brief grin with Sherlock before heading over to perform his fatherly duty. 

“I didn’t realize that this was a playdate, Gio.” Words that he had never expected to say in his life tumble out from his mouth. 

“Neither did I.” Lestrade shrugs. “The ex demanded that I take Naomi today. She apparently has a day at the spa with her girlfriends.” Lestrade rolls his eyes as he grabs one of the metal bars and spins the wheel around – eliciting joyous noises from the children. “I was happy to take her.”

“Ah. I see.” 

After a few minutes on the roundabout, the two children run off – Laurie’s shorter legs having a harder time keeping up with Naomi’s. They climb up a few platforms of the colourful castle-themed tower, until they reach a wall with yellow cylinders marked with black Xs and Os where Naomi attempts to teach Laurie the rules of tic-tac-toe. Laurie is getting stronger, Sherlock notices – compared to what Mycroft had told him about what Laurie could do weeks ago before Sherlock had returned home to London. 

“I heard that you had a case. From Molly.” Lestrade speaks.

“Ah. Yes. I do. I haven’t seen Molly since I returned.”

“Yeah. She mentioned that. She didn’t seem very happy about that.”

Sherlock sighs. Yes, Molly had done this enormous favour for him. Helping him execute the Fall. Keeping his secret. He hadn’t been deliberately avoiding her – the two times he had been in the morgue since his return had been staffed by Molly’s colleagues – and she had been off those days. But yet – the longer they didn’t meet – the more awkward things seem to be. He shrugs. He will deal with it when he runs into her one of these days. 

“So – what is the case?”

And Sherlock explains – summarizing the pertinent details while keeping a vigilant eye out on the children. Laurie loses his first two games of tic-tac-toe, but eventually he picks up the basic strategies to win or force a tie regardless if he goes first or second. 

“Why don’t you check Len’s bond status? That is all information that would be publicly available at the Home Office.” Lestrade offers, as Naomi gets frustrated when Laurie wins three times in a row. Sherlock smiles – there is a cunning strategist somewhere in his little son. 

“That’s actually not a bad thought.” Sherlock replies, thinking. 

“I’ve never thought about it that way. The concept of ‘free will’.” Lestrade ponders. “Not that it affects me by any means – being a Beta. Once an Alpha and an Omega bond – they are tied together forever in some way – regardless if it's a happy union or not.”

“But it is possible to separate if an Alpha and Omega are bonded – it’s just that they can never be bonded to another person again.”

“Hm… Usually the partner after for both sexes is a Beta.”

“Makes sense.” Sherlock agrees. Less drama. Alphas get territorial when other Alphas get involved with their bonded Omegas. Not to mention that there are very few Alphas and Omegas that are interested in a long-term relationship aside from one-night-stands and friends-with-benefits with someone they cannot bond with. “I will have to do a little sleuthing about where Len is diverting his funds to. And the identity of the child in that photograph. It’s either his, or his brother’s – I think. There’s no other children in the family from what I understand.” 

“That could help. But you still need the murder –”

Sherlock quickly leaps up the tower platforms to Laurie – his coat flapping in the wind – who is about to embark on his first ride down the tall orangey-yellow slide with two full rotations. Ambitious for a boy who does have a fear of heights, and had only attempted slides that were as tall as Sherlock’s waist. His son is more of a timid creature – cautious. He isn’t sure where Laurie had inherited that from. Sherlock had always been a risk-taker and an adrenaline-seeker, while his brother had always made calculated and cautious decisions, but is a fearless person in the grand scheme of things. 

“You want to try this – Laurie mine?” Sherlock squats down to meet his son at eye-level. 

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Laurie is already sitting at the top of the slide. He then turns and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s arm – his blue eyes looking almost green in the sunlight seem almost tearful. “I… scared. Lock.” 

Naomi – who already had slid down calls from below. “You can do it – Laurie!”

“Nothing to be scared about, dear one.” He ruffles his son’s curls. Seeing his son’s dubious look, he finds himself offering. “I can go down with you.”

“Together?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sits down on the plastic slide, after lifting his son up slightly to situate him on his lap. This is ridiculous – he muses. He can’t even recall if he had slid down on a slide in his childhood, ever. 

“Okay.” Laurie says slowly. “I think I am ready.” His own hands grab onto Sherlock’s – which are wrapped around his abdomen. 

“Here we go.” Sherlock pushes off with one hand. 

Slowly they slide down. Sherlock is far too large for the slide – making the proceedings awkward, but Laurie seems to enjoy it. When he reaches the bottom – he is greeted by Lestrade’s phone, obviously filming the entire event. 

Ignoring the DI, he asks. “That wasn’t so bad, Laurie – do you think you can do this on your own?” 

His son nods. “I think so. I try next time?”

“Good idea.” Sherlock pats Laurie’s head as he gets up. He then brushes the sand and other rubbish off his coat. “Try now – Laurie, while you still have the courage.”

“Right now?” His son looks at him – somewhat worried.

“Yeah. Now.” 

“Kay!” Laurie runs toward the entrance of the tower. 

Sherlock gives a quick glance at Naomi – who is surprisingly bright for an offspring of Lestrade – and she follows Laurie closely behind, her ponytail streaming along with the wind. When Laurie struggles with climbing up the steeper parts – Naomi gives him a hand. This time, she lets Laurie go first on the slide – and his son, who has a determined look in his eyes – pushes himself off – and goes down the corkscrewing slide. There is a glimmer of accomplishment in Laurie’s eyes as Sherlock lifts him up at the bottom and gives him a peck on the cheek. 

“Again, again!” Laurie calls out – as Sherlock sets him back down on the sand. 

With Naomi in tow, they repeat the process many times – which is a great thing, as it allows Laurie to develop his gross motor skills, strength and stamina. 

“They get along well.” Lestrade remarks, moments later. “My ex always tells me that Naomi is the shy one at school and doesn’t seem to have many friends. She was very unhappy when we separated. Unlike Natalie – my eldest – who was simply fed up with our bickering. We should do this again, Sherlock.”

Fancy that! Playdates with Lestrade. But it would be good for Laurie’s social skills development. This is probably the first time Laurie has ever had to interact with someone closer to his own age. And he finds himself wondering what Mycroft would do for Laurie’s schooling – both of them had been homeschooled for the most part, before they had spent a few of their adolescent years at a boarding school. Mycroft had gone to Eton for a few years, where he had begun making connections among the elite – and had acquired his taste for fancy clothes. 

“Yeah. I think Laurie would like that. He’s lonely otherwise.” Sherlock agrees. 

“And I  _ still _ don’t know who your Omega is. It’s certainly not Molly. Or John.” 

“Ha! Expertly deduced! Well, I will have to leave you to your curiosity, then.”

“Your Omega doesn’t mind? That you two aren’t – public?”

“Oh, he prefers things this way. And I don’t mind.” Sherlock shrugs.

“I will find out someday, Sherlock – you can’t keep hiding things from me!” Lestrade says with determination. 

***

“So… did you go see John?” Lestrade asks, when they are all situated in a nice café – the two of them with fancy lattes – the children with milk. 

They all indulge in slices of the café’s specialty – the Curly-Whirly cake, which features Belgian chocolate melted into the sponge layers and the creation is slathered richly in cream cheese and vanilla bean frosting. There are also extra slices for Sherlock to bring home to Mycroft. Laurie eats his cake with enthusiasm, despite his exhaustion. 

“Yeah.” Sherlock grimaces. 

“Things weren’t resolved?”

“No. Things got even more complicated.”

“Really?” 

“Definitely. For one thing – John went into heat during our conversation.”

“No – he didn’t!?!”

Sherlock can only nod. “It was… for the lack of a better descriptor – ghastly.”

“You had a patch on you?”

“Of course. I tried to call Mary, but –”

“But what?” George is highly curious.

“John knocked the phone off the table before I could do so – and he started coming onto me. I had to run out of the flat as there was no way I could talk any rational sense into him before he could throw himself on me.” Sherlock sighs – debating whether to share more details. Fuck it. He needs to talk to someone about this that isn’t Mycroft. “He was saying things. Asking me things like whether or not I missed him while I was  _ away. _ Or if I  _ wanted  _ him. Ever.” 

“Did he ever give any indication of interest before you left?” Lestrade asks. “And did you ever –”

“God. No. Frankly, John isn’t my type. In fact, I didn’t know I had a type until I met my Omega. And, whenever anyone mentioned or insinuated that John and I were together before I went  _ away,  _ he was always very quick to correct them and say that he isn’t gay.” 

“I always thought… you know, before you went away that you and him would end up together. Somehow. I thought that John always  _ felt _ something for you – you see. But – with his homophobic parents and his sister – I can see why he insisted on heterosexuality. And then out of the blue – he mated with Mary – and I thought that was the end of that.” Lestrade takes a breath before continuing. “When you returned, I thought that you would have trouble adjusting to a life without John. And –”

“Oh. That’s why you darkened my front door! And so frequently!” Sherlock somehow feels touched at Glenn’s concern. Perhaps what Lestrade had said would have been true – had Mycroft decided to move on as well. 

Lestrade gives a small smile. “Yes. That’s the reason behind it at the beginning, but Sherlock – I am a busy and lonely man. Friends are hard to make and keep as I get older. I do enjoy your company – and I assure you that I am here because I want to be.”

The children had cleared their cake. Laurie had almost picked up his plate and licked it – but Sherlock had taken the china away before he could do so. Naomi had found a fishing game from the stacks of board games on the shelves offered to the patrons of the establishment. Laurie and her both giggle as they dangle their fishing rods – trying to capture tricky toy-fish with moving jaws. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to Lestrade’s burst of sentiment, so he returns to the previous topic. “You know – John wasn’t on birth control…”

“Really?” It’s Lestrade’s turn to be at a loss for words. “That’s really irresponsible of him. If you didn’t have a patch that day, and you got enticed to have sex – any offspring from that union would be as good as dead – as bonded Alphas have a tendency to –”

“I know.” Sherlock sighs. Infanticide. An Alpha’s instinct to do away with kits produced by their Omega that aren’t genetically theirs. “But – at the same time – I can’t blame him – it’s Mary that prevents him from having –”

“Oh! She’s one of those Alphas.” Lestrade tsks. “Damn.” He then counts with his fingers. “Also – it’s too soon for John to go into a heat – he barely gave birth eight months ago. Usually it’s a year or more…”

“Lestrade… are you suggesting…” Sherlock trails off – the conclusion leaving ashes in his mouth. 

It is too horrible to contemplate. This is starting to look premeditated. The odds favoured it. Never had he ever felt so disgusted in his life… 

The DI nods gravely. “Forced heat induction. It happens.” 

“I know. We’ve solved cases involving forced heat together.” Sherlock then asks. “You don’t think John is over me? Assuming that he had been interested at all at some point? My Omega seems to think so.”

“Your Omega – knows John?” Lestrade scratches at his stubbly chin – intrigued. He then returns to the conversation at hand. “Yeah. I think so. You should have seen him when you were gone – he mourned –”

“That’s what Mrs. Hudson told me.” 

“She’s not wrong. But anyways – John mourned for you as if you were his Alpha – and there were times where I thought that you two did indeed bond behind my back!”

“I don’t even know what to say.” Sherlock sighs deeply, minutes later. 

And the biggest problem is that he couldn’t stick his nose into this puzzle too deeply without repercussions. He would have to take a leaf from Mycroft and simply watch and wait. Patience. A virtue he lacks. “Someone’s playing games… and I don’t like it one bit.” 

“I thought you lived for games?” 

Sherlock shakes his head firmly. Those wild bachelor Alpha days are over. Or so he hopes. “Not anymore. I’ve had enough to last for a lifetime, Lestrade. I just want to exist in peace with my Omega and child.” 

***

Mycroft wakes when he feels the mattress dip under a familiar weight. Arms wrap around him – as he catches the scent of a freshly-washed Sherlock. His brother spoons him, and he sighs happily. Sleeping without his Alpha is just not the same. 

By his estimates, it is still currently the dead of night – not that it mattered, as Mycroft plans to work from home tomorrow. He could wake up whenever he wanted. Well – at least whenever until Laurie wakes him up. There are no important meetings scheduled. And Anthea and he could always communicate via email, text and phone calls should anything arise. 

“Mm… you came back.” He mutters, sleepily.

“Well, I did come back to eat dinner with you, earlier.”

“And you ruined Laurie’s appetite again with cake. Once again.” 

“It was a fantastic cake – I brought home the two extra slices we didn’t eat. For you.” Sherlock’s breath tickles the back of Mycroft’s neck in the most delightful way. “You can have it tomorrow.”

“Thank you, brother.” Mycroft turns around, needing to see his brother in the dark. 

He had heard about Laurie’s afternoon, and he had been happy that Laurie could get along with someone around his own age; in fact it seemed that Laurie had developed quite a friendship with the DI’s daughter. His son had an enjoyable day by all accounts – an energetic one. He had particularly enjoyed the video that Sherlock had sent him – of himself and Laurie going down the slide, conquering Laurie’s fear together. His inner Omega had thrilled in it – glad that his Alpha cared so much about their kit. 

“It’s nothing to thank me for, My.” Sherlock nuzzles him, before lightly scenting him. “You deserve everything from me.” 

“Including your bratty behaviour?” Mycroft asks – teasingly.

“You know what I mean.” And then Sherlock adds – in a tone in which Mycroft could almost hear his brother’s grin. “Sometimes you deserve that too.” 

“I am beyond flattered.”

“You ought to be. I am quite a catch.” 

“So modest.” Mycroft rearranges them and their quilt, so that he could cuddle more comfortably with his brother. “But – alas, Sherlock – you are all mine.” His arms tighten possessively. 

“I am yours.” Sherlock readily agrees, as he relaxes into Mycroft’s embrace.

“So…” Mycroft asks, minutes later – under the warm cocoon of their limbs and quilt. “Did you find out if Mr. Free Will is bonded?”

“Yeah. Lestrade and I took a quick visit to the Home Office before we went for our dessert.” Sherlock then reveals quietly. “He is bonded. To his brother. But –” Sherlock pauses. “My – that’s not the most interesting thing I discovered – it was the mysterious child in the photograph that was the most intriguing. The child isn’t his – but is his brother’s. And the Alpha that sired the kit is deceased. Motor vehicle accident shortly after conception.”

“Oh.” Mycroft replies in realization. “So – the brother and his Alpha had a child out of bondlock – and then – things must have gone very wrong for Len to give his brother his bondbite.”

“Yes.” Sherlock then says. “I found Tommy Robinson’s medical file after dinner. Very serious complications. Eclampsia. Omega-Fetus Incompatibility. He almost died because he refused to abort his child. And the date of their bond is around the same time as when that happened.”

A pregnant Omega could be bonded at any time past the second trimester – because the levels of hormones that circulate in the Omega’s body at that time are similar to what is seen in estrus. Proper foreplay with a pregnant unbonded Omega would induce an Alpha to go into rut, and knot the Omega (who would be in some sort of a  _ pseudo-heat _ ) – giving the Alpha an opportunity to bond with its mate. A rare situation – but it does happen. 

Typically, it would be the Alpha who had sired the kit who would bond with the Omega at that time, after having realized the errors of their irresponsible ways. If a different Alpha bonded with the Omega – it is hypothesized that the Omega would naturally abort the child in order for their new Alpha to breed them as soon as possible – to fill them with their own kits. 

But perhaps – in the case of Tom and Len – Mycroft could guess that the similarities in genetics had prevented that from happening. Len didn’t love Tom in the way Mycroft loved his brother – but clearly – their brotherly bond had been strong enough for Len to sacrifice his ability to bond with an Omega he loves so that he could – at that point – save the life of his brother and his kit.

“Mycroft –” Sherlock then whispers gravely. “If that had happened to you – I would have rushed back from wherever I was to give you my bondbite.” 

“Brother.” Mycroft suddenly feels sad. If he had known that Sherlock would have been so receptive – but then again… it wouldn’t have been right to interrupt Sherlock’s mission to take down Moriarty’s network just to make his life more bearable during his pregnancy. “It wouldn’t have been right to call you back. I am just happy everything worked out, dearest. There’s no point in revisiting the what-ifs.” He kisses his brother again – this time, letting their lips nibble at each other’s, both playfully and sensually. 

Sherlock sighs regretfully, after they separate. “I am too tired for anything other than cuddling and sleeping, brother. I feel like I’ve been running around for two days straight –”

“No need to justify yourself, little brother. I understand.” Mycroft nuzzles his brother fondly. “But I see now. A motive for your crime.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles. “I think I know who did it too. But I need the weapon.” He then yawns sleepily. “Night, Mycroft.”

Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s forehead, letting his lips linger against his skin. “Night, dearest mine.” It’s enough for him that Sherlock had managed to find time to warm the otherwise painfully lonely bed. 


	14. Chapter 14

**XIV.**

The dream is lovely. Kisses. Soft touches. Fond looks. A bit of tongue. The most delicious bit of teeth. Then there is the friction. Mm… as if someone is rubbing something hard against his bum. Ooh.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. His nose informs him he is in Mycroft’s – well, their bed. The room is dark, except for the barest glimmer of daylight that manages to penetrate through thick crimson curtains. Moans catch his attention next. In his unconscious state, Mycroft is grinding himself against Sherlock’s backside. Evidently seeking for a happy ending. 

He rolls over, deliberately slipping out of his brother’s lax arms. Reaching for his phone, he checks the time. It’s still early morning. A sad whine escapes from Mycroft. Placing the device down, Sherlock goes back to his Omega – planting apologetic kisses on his face, while his brother’s pelvis seeks out Sherlock’s own – searching for something warm to rub against. 

“Someone’s horny this morning…” Sherlock tests out his first words of the day. 

Mycroft comes to his senses then. His eyes flicker open. A mixture of surprise and horror. “Good Lord – Sherlock – I’m so –”

“Flattered.” Sherlock interrupts – forestalling an unnecessary apology. It’s hot; all these little discoveries of this very human side of his brother. Delightful. And, dare he say under the penalty of death, that Mycroft’s embarrassment is adorable? “Is this what happens when I don’t satisfy your needs, brother? Rutting against the nearest body like some succubus?” He teases.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft sighs. “You make me sound like a sex-crazed–”

“Mm… I like it, brother mine, mpph –” Sherlock’s words are swallowed in a passionate kiss.

His brother straddles him. Sherlock reaches over for the tube of artificial slick stashed somewhere along the headboard of the bed, and he tosses it to Mycroft, who catches it readily. He sighs, when Mycroft slathers his half-hard prick with slick – his movements uncharacteristically clumsy due to need. 

Mycroft grunts – partially in relief, when he sinks down on Sherlock’s Alpha cock. Damn.

“Ride it brother – like the sex-crazed fiend you are.” 

“Shush, Sherlock – or I will just…” Mycroft lets out a lascivious moan here – his face scrunches in pleasure as Sherlock’s member rubs against the perfect spot. It takes a while for him to finish his threat. “Stop.”

“Really?” Sherlock murmurs skeptically.

“Yes, really – I will leave you horny and –”

Sherlock grabs his brother’s hips – and without missing a beat – he flips them both over, still thrusting in his brother’s needy hole, eliciting a yelp of surprise from his Omega. “I don’t think so, Mycroft. I think you need a good fucking. If you recall – it was _ you _ that started –”

The sound of a doorknob being turned causes them both to freeze. It is Sherlock that reacts first, covering them both up with the quilt, his turgid prick still lodged in Mycroft’s cloaca. He can make out the silhouette of Laurie standing at the now-open door, his fingers still clutching Wolfie – his stuffed wolf.

Sherlock can sense at once that something is wrong. He slides his cock out of his brother, just as Laurie slowly walks over to the bed, looking unwell. His brother hides a disappointed moan, but he asks as he fumbles with his pyjama bottoms, “Laurie?”

“Daddy, I don’t feel good.” Their son rasps, his voice hoarse. 

The glazed look in Laurie’s eyes tells Sherlock that his son has a fever. And he probably has a laryngitis of some sort. Mycroft gets out of the bed, and immediately goes to pick up their son. His brother’s hand goes to Laurie’s forehead first – and Sherlock could see him frown in the darkened room.

“You have a fever, Laurie mine. What else is bothering you?” 

Their son doesn’t speak, but he points to his throat and nose, before coughing harshly. Without another word, Mycroft disappears out of the room, leaving Sherlock to get dressed and head to the loo to start his morning. 

***

Damn. Mycroft sighs as he pulls open the drawer of the nightstand located next to Laurie’s bed. His son had done so well ever since Sherlock had returned. It’s inevitable. The approach of the colder weather heralds all the bugs that will soon start circulating around. If they haven’t already started, that is.

Laurie already has his mouth open, already anticipating the probe of the thermometer. The probe goes under his tongue, and the thermometer beeps – indicating a fever of 39.3 degrees Celsius. A disposable tongue-blade goes into Laurie’s mouth next – with Mycroft using his phone as a light source. More pink than red, no pus. No noticeable lumps on Laurie’s neck. Probably not strep. Viral, most likely. 

Finally, he takes out the stethoscope and listens to his son’s lungs. No wheezes. No crackles. His son had been ill so often over the course of his short life that Mycroft had learned how to do a basic physical. No need to call the paediatrician to make a house call. For now. His son breathes easily – only struggling at the end of a coughing fit. No stridor. Stridor (high-pitched whistling upon inspiration) scares him the most. Laurie’s had the ominous-sounding breathing twice, and both times Mycroft has had to camp out in the hospital in the intensive care unit as his son couldn’t breathe properly on his own. He puts everything away, and lets his fingers tousle his son’s curls. Like his sire, Laurie likes having his locks played with, and his scalp massaged. 

“I will get you a paracetamol. Medicine.” Mycroft says. “Do you want to eat, dearest mine?” 

Laurie makes a reluctant face. 

“Juice then? Orange? I can squeeze some for you?”

A lethargic shrug of the shoulders. 

“Try then. Can get you some soup later. And I can tell ‘Lock to get you some zhōu (congee) for dinner. How does that sound?”

His son falls onto the bed, looking absolutely miserable. A pang fills his chest as Mycroft tucks him into his _ Lion King _ themed quilt. “Rest now, I will come back.” He gives one last caress, before heading back out of the room, thinking of yesterday – of how Laurie had been animatedly recounting the story of his adventures with the DI’s daughter and of Sherlock chasing their son around the living room after dinner before he had gone out to do his job. 

***

“I made breakfast, brother mine.” Sherlock had been at a loss when he had emerged from the loo earlier, but when he had gone down to the kitchen – and had realized that Mycroft wasn’t there making food. As he usually did. 

So, he had done so instead. 

“Oh. Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft looks surprised. 

Perhaps at 1) that Sherlock could cook, 2) that the kitchen isn’t on fire, or bears no marks of an explosion and 3) that Sherlock could be thoughtful. The latter hurts. Mycroft had always been the thoughtful one in their relationship. Sherlock watches as Mycroft picks up a plate containing fried eggs, beans, toast and rashers and a fork.

“Is he okay? Can I help with anything?” 

“Could you take out some oranges from the fridge and make some orange juice? Laurie likes that when he is ill. It’s probably – croup.” 

Sherlock does as he is requested. He finds the oranges, takes a few, slices them in half and finds the squeezer. As he squeezes the juice, he asks. “Should I scent him?”

“No. I will bring the clothes you wore yesterday to him. No sense in getting you –”

Sherlock shrugs. “I am hardly ever ill, Mycroft. I will scent him in the evening, then – like I usually do.”

“Could you bring dinner home? Some Chinese? Congee would be good for Laurie.”

“Of course. Anything, big brother.” Sherlock picks up another half of an orange and continues squeezing. “You will stay home?”

“Yes. Today was meant to be a work-at-home day, anyways. I will just take my things and do my work in Laurie’s room later. Just to make sure he’s breathing okay. He’s had –” Mycroft sighs deeply, and Sherlock could only imagine all the vigils and nursing his brother had done alone over the years while he had been gone. His brother suddenly changes the topic, “Let’s postpone our trip to the Continent till Christmas. Give Laurie some time to recuperate.”

Sherlock smirks. Perfect. “Convenient. We can dodge our parents’ ghastly Christmas get-togethers.”

Mycroft shrugs. “I haven’t seen our parents since you’ve been gone – little brother.”

His eyes widen. “But you were the one always telling _ me _ to go –”

“Hypocrisy. I kept making up excuses. Couldn’t face them. You could imagine the lectures Mummy would give. They don’t know about Laurie.” 

“I don’t think we can hide forever, Mycroft.” 

“But we could always hide a little longer.” 

“Ha.” Fancy that! His brother not wanting to meet their parents. The world had truly changed since he had left London years back. 

As he pours the orange juice from the squeezer into a colourful sippy cup for Laurie, his phone vibrates. 

_ Code Blue called on Len just now. Cardiac arrest. ACLS protocol initiated. Ahmed _

Fuck. 

Bollocks. 

Bloody hell. 

What is killing this Alpha?

He hits ‘call’. As the phone rings, he paces about – watching Mycroft eat and glance at the screen of his own phone. 

“Sherlock?” The intensivist’s voice is frantic.

“Ahmed, what is going on?”

“Mayhem. The Code Team is trying to bring him back. I just have no bloody –” 

“Hang on – aside from the Code Team, who else is in the room right now? And before that.”

“Wait a sec, I will ask his nurse. He would know best.”

It’s crunch time. 

Fuck. 

Come on. 

Think. 

Think.

What is doing this to this Alpha? 

Sherlock paces some more. Mycroft continues eating. Sherlock could tell that his brother has turned his attention from his phone to his conversation with Ahmed. His brother has elegant hands – he cannot help observing. And – he still wears that golden ring… One day… he should ask his brother the significance behind the ring.

Hm. Gold. Gold. Gold. 

Where had he seen gold? 

Oh. Shit. He should have thought about this earlier…! 

Stupid. 

Stupid.

“Sherlock? You there?”

“Yeah.” 

“Len’s Omega, his Mum and ‘Dickie’ are currently in the –”

“Ahmed – _ listen _ carefully. Do _ not _under any circumstance let any of them leave Len’s room. Make up some excuse. Talk to them. It doesn’t matter. Just keep them in there. I am going to come over right now! Do you understand – it’s of the utmost importance!” Sherlock’s own voice sounds shaky and excited to his ears.

“Yes. Understood. I will make sure they don’t leave the room.”

“See you.”

Sherlock hangs up. “I’ve got to go, brother – I will see you later.”

Without waiting for Mycroft to reply, he dashes out – grabbing his coat and scarf. He would have to make a trip to the hospital’s laboratories first, before heading to the scene of the crime.

The game is on!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACLS: Acute Cardiovascular Life Support - the set of algorithms for dealing with a patient in a number of scenarios, such as respiratory distress, cardiac arrest
> 
> Damn. How quickly the world changes! Several hospitals near me don't even accept visitors now at all (which wasn't true when I was writing this chapter).  
Stay safe everyone! (And I can't wait for my few weeks in the emergency department next... interesting times).


	15. Chapter 15

**XV.**

Mycroft sighs when he hears the front door slam behind Sherlock. He turns to the kitchen counter, where Sherlock had left the orange-juice filled sippy cup. Collecting the squeezer and the plates left behind from breakfast, he dumps them into the sink for later. A wave of disappointment that he cannot quash rises within him. He tosses the orange peels away in the composting bin. When Sherlock had left – he had just felt… so alone. Of course, he had Laurie – but it just reminds him of the days where Sherlock hadn’t been around – off adventuring, as the Alphas of old had been known to do – while the Omega stays at home.

Rummaging through the cupboards, he finds a box of graham crackers that he knows he could coax Laurie to have a few nibbles of. He shakes his head. Sherlock’s case is about to meet its conclusion. This is a critical point. He can’t grudge his brother for this. But still. It leads him to wonder. Where his lover’s priorities are when push comes to shove. Mycroft doesn’t want to do things alone anymore. Not when he’s had a taste of what it is like to share the burdens with someone he cares for so deeply. Someone he adores beyond reason. Sighing once more, he grabs the cup, the crackers and the bottle of paracetamol and heads upstairs for Laurie’s room. 

Harsh coughing greets him when he enters his son’s bedroom. Laurie is lying on his side, looking extremely miserable. He doesn’t even turn to look at Mycroft when he enters. This does not look promising. He quickly puts the supplies down on the nightstand, before picking up his son – running his hand through his curls in a soothing manner – while he walks over to the bathroom. 

Closing the door behind him, he turns on the hot water in the shower to make steam. It should help ease the coughing fits. Or so he hopes. He paces back and forth for a minute, before opting to sit down on the chair. Laurie is coughing so much that Mycroft is unable to scent him. Damn. All he can hope is that this doesn’t get worse – or he will have to go straight to the A&E. His threshold for going is low – considering Laurie has been an ICU frequent flier. 

Oh Laurie. Mycroft rubs his son’s back and nuzzles his juvenile scent gland when Laurie finally reaches the end of his coughing fit. His boy had suffered more than his fair share in his short life. 

***

Sherlock rushes down the hall to the MICU, where the fellow of the critical care team – Dr. Fraser – is absolutely frantic. The physician makes a beeline for him after spotting him from afar – and his words come out in a rushed jumble. Sherlock makes out a few sentences, including ‘couldn’t get her to stay in the room’, ‘she just left for the loo’ – and Sherlock is off – sprinting for the nearest woman’s bathroom. No time. Without hesitation, he flings the door open to the loo, where Melanie had just come out of a stall. 

“Mrs. Robinson.” He says – interrupting her before she could express outrage at the socially-inappropriate intrusion. “I need to talk to you.” He grasps her hands firmly, but in a reassuring manner. “I just wanted to say that I am –”

The door to the loo swings open once more. The moment distraction allows for Melanie to shove Sherlock aside – making a rush for the far sink. 

Sherlock pivots quickly and grabs her once more – there is a struggle. Dr. Fraser – who had followed Sherlock, and had no doubt felt awkward about entering and being in the woman’s loo – reaches for her – and she stops and shouts with indignation as she is outnumbered.

“This isn’t how you should treat an Omega!”

“Ah. Not if they have just commited a first-degree murder.” Sherlock says – his voice cold. “Look at your hands, Mrs. Robinson. Look at them!”

Slowly, Len’s wife turns her hands over. She looks baffled at the shade of purple on her skin that hadn’t been there minutes ago. 

“I am a chemist by training, Mrs. Robinson. The application of stannous chloride to a certain metal – gold – has a most intriguing reaction. I should have thought of it earlier – when I had learned that your mother takes gold sodium thiomalate for her rheumatoid arthritis. A drug that you purchased for her in bulk on your last vacation to Mexico in September, I believe. A drug that is no longer available in England.”

“I-I didn’t kill him.” Her demeanour instantly changes – having realized that there is no escape. 

“Mrs. Robinson. His heart stopped during the Code for two minutes.” It is Dr. Fraser who speaks now. “I ordered the serum test for gold STAT, as you’ve requested, Mr. Holmes – and it’s –”

The door to the bathroom opens again. Ahmed steps in – having no doubt been paged. The intensivist’s shrewd eyes fall upon the purple hands, and he nods with satisfaction, and then – Lestrade appears, with handcuffs. Sherlock had texted him on the way to Bart’s. 

“Literally a gold mine.” The fellow finishes. “I just put in the orders for chelation therapy. But, in my opinion – he will need a double-lung transplant, unfortunately. The damage done is far too extensive.”

As Greg leads Melanie out after reading her arrest rights, Sherlock receives a text after he had washed his hands.

_ Your brother took Laurie to the A&E at St. Thomas. Anthea _

_ He didn’t want me to tell you, but I thought that you should know. Anthea _

“That was bloody brilliant.” Ahmed exclaims – looking extremely relieved. “You caught her – red-handed! Or rather… purple-handed! You are – as good as they say you are. Genius!”

Sherlock merely nods – the triumph had instantly turned into ashes with Anthea’s texts. He can read between the lines. Anthea is telling him to ‘not royally fuck this up’. 

_ I will go to him. SH _

_ Thank you. SH _

“Where on earth did you even find stannous chloride?” Dr. Fraser asks – curious.

“Oh, I went to Mike’s lab and found some before coming here.” Sherlock shrugs. It is the reason why it had taken him so long to get here. “If you two will excuse me, there is somewhere I need to be.” 

He dashes out without looking back.

***

_ Where did you go? GL _

_ Sorry, Grant. I left Bart’s. My kit is quite ill, and my Omega needs me. SH _

_ Alright. You will need to come fill in the paperwork for Mrs. Robinson’s arrest at some point. Okay? GL _

_ And, I am sorry to hear about Laurie. I hope he gets better soon. GL _

_ I hope so too. SH _

_ I will see what I can do about the paperwork. SH _

_ No hurry. GL _

_ If you need anything, please text. GL _

_ I will. SH _

_ Thank you. SH _

_ Anytime, Sherlock. GL _

_ You did good today. GL _

When the taxi arrives at the entrance of St. Thomas’ Hospital’s A&E, Sherlock grabs his takeaway bag, tosses a few notes to the driver and strides out. 

***

Mycroft stares in disbelief when he sees a familiar figure in the distance. Sherlock. He had sensed his presence long before even having laid his eyes on his Alpha – he had felt a calm patch of serenity moments ago in his sea of worry. Anthea must have told him then. And in his hand – there is a heavenly bag of takeaway. So he had remembered. 

Laurie lies on the stretcher, looking somewhat improved from earlier. His little son is still – fatigued – and has been given a supply of oxygen via a nasal cannula as his oxygen saturation had been on the lower end of normal when they had arrived. The resident physician had given him an epinephrine nebulizer treatment as well as some steroids. Thankfully that scary stridor that had driven Mycroft to the A&E had abated. The pulse-oximeter clipped onto Laurie’s index finger yields appropriate numbers for now.

When Sherlock reaches him, Mycroft wordlessly engulfs him in a hug – not giving a damn as to who sees him, and buries his face in Sherlock’s neck – needing to scent him. His brother puts the bag down on the nearby bedside table as Mycroft does so, and he asks – quietly – with worry.

“How is he?”

“Better. They want to keep him overnight for observation, considering his previous history of needing intensive care. Otherwise, they would have discharged him later in the afternoon. We are waiting for a bed upstairs.” 

“It’s awfully noisy in here.” Sherlock muses – listening to the cacophony of alarms and other noises of the machines in the bay. Every spot has an occupied stretcher.

Mycroft shrugs. “One gets used to it.” He then chuckles rather weakly. “Certainly I’ve been in the hospitals often enough. You. Then Laurie. I take it that your case has concluded satisfactorily?”

“Yes. It was the wife. As I thought so from the beginning. Although talking to Dickie on the second day had made me question myself for a few moments. Fascinating method and context. Fortunately I was able to catch her before she washed all that gold off her hands. I… I don’t envy the choices that Len had to make though.” Sherlock sighs. 

“No. I don’t either.” Mycroft agrees. “Technically, he did cheat on her all those years ago. You do need a knot and a bite to create a bond, regardless of pregnancy status.” 

Sherlock walks closer to Laurie. It seems unnatural to see his son look so lethargic. Gently, he ruffles his kit’s curls, and his son turns his head slightly toward him – and Laurie utters so quietly that Sherlock ends up having to read his lips instead. “Lock?”

“Yes, Laurie-mine, I am here.” He bends down to give a quick peck to Laurie’s temple. “Sorry, I am late.”

“You caught – bad man?” 

“Bad woman, more like. She’s going to jail now – don’t you fret.” 

Mycroft watches the interaction between Sherlock and Laurie fondly. All he could think about is the fact that his Sherlock had come. 

“Mm… My – of course I came.” Sherlock interrupts his thoughts. “I saw Anthea’s texts after I caught the culprit and left immediately.” 

“Thank you, darling – it means… the world to me.” 

Mycroft opens the takeaway bag, pulling out a tub of plain congee, a packet of pork floss, fried dough sticks (youtiao) and another box containing seafood chow mein for him and Sherlock. Laurie had closed his eyes and had fallen asleep, so he will coax his son to eat later. Hopefully when they are upstairs. At least his son is getting IV fluids. He breaks a pair of chopsticks and helps himself to the noodles. Scarfing down several bites, he then hands the box and the chopsticks to Sherlock – who digs in for a minute or two – and returns the food back. Neither speak, focusing either on eating or watching their dear little boy resting on the stretcher. 

***

“Here.” Sherlock pushes the paperwork to Lestrade across the table. “It’s done.”

Gabriel sighs, picking up the papers to put in his folder. “Thank you, Sherlock. It’s been a busy day.”

“Tell me about it.” Sherlock reaches over to grab the overnight bag that he had prepared for Mycroft and Laurie. 

“This is… your brother’s house.” Lestrade’s eyes wander around the darkened living room. “And – you are going now?”

“Yeah. Kit’s in the hospital overnight for observation. Will camp out with them. Thought it would be more convenient if you met me here…” Oh. Damn. Sherlock didn’t think this one all the way through – even Lestrade had enough brains to put one and one together to make two. He had wanted to save himself time and a trip to Baker Street. Worry and exhaustion – they are making him lose his edge. 

“Wait.”

Sherlock can almost hear Gavin’s gears turn in his head. 

It’s painfully slow.

“Yeah?” Sherlock reaches over to kill the lamplight. 

“Your brother… he’s an Omega.” The words come out slowly. 

“Yes…?” Sherlock keeps his tone neutral, even though he can feel his heart beginning to beat a little faster in his chest. Oh fuck. What is Mycroft going to say? Will Lestrade accept this? 

“He is unbonded… as far as I am aware. We are in his house. It was more convenient to meet you here than at Baker Street. You – you said that the Omega is someone I know…”

Well, Sherlock certainly didn’t say that – Lestrade had deduced that on his own. 

“Oh – fucking shite – it’s…” The Detective Inspector is at a loss for words. He finds them a long minute later, when Sherlock is sure he is going to die from the suspense – not to mention that Sherlock had realized that he actually cared about Lestrade’s reaction to his unconventional relationship. “It’s – your brother. You – you are dating your brother! You had a kit with him!”

“Problem?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh damn – I’ve been giving you dating advice on how to court your brother.” Lestrade is almost in hysterics. He grows serious. “No, no problem – it just wasn’t… expected. You two are consenting adults – and you guys made a beautiful kit together.” And then he adds for good measure. “Sherlock. Just so you know – I will always support you. You know that.”

“Good to know. Thanks… Greg.” 

Lestrade’s eyes light up. “Hey – you’ve actually gotten it right! My name!”

“Well, I was bound to hit the right name at some point. Only so many names that start with ‘G’.” Sherlock smiles wryly, while Lestrade smacks him on the shoulder in a friendly sort of manner. “Gregory.”

“A night of nights!” Lestrade beams. “You should go to him then. Don’t let me keep you, Sherlock. He needs you. And – I will be the model of discretion – don’t you mind. And if you need anything – please don’t hesitate to text.”

“Thank you – Greg.” Sherlock says as Lestrade steps outside, and he locks the front door behind them. 

Fuck. Now he has to tell Mycroft that someone knows their secrets. But – Sherlock is confident that he can trust Lestrade. And – it’s kind of a relief that someone knows and is supportive of their relationship. 

***

_ You left before I could say thank you. Ahmed _

_ Something urgent came up that required my attention. SH _

_ But, your thanks is appreciated. SH _

_ Len’s mother is going to cover your consulting fee. She is beyond grateful. Ahmed _

_ The case was interesting enough for me to do it pro bono. SH _

_ Nonsense. You should be paid! Mike says he won’t complain about the abuse of his lab for the next six months. Ahmed _

_ Generous of him. SH _

_ Exactly my reply. Verbatim. Ahmed _

_ Len’s mother also has one request. She is willing to pay for it. Ahmed _

_ What is it? SH _

_ Could you locate the whereabouts of Tommy’s child? Considering that Len will need to be on a ventilator until we find an appropriate donor and transplant him. Ahmed _

_ She would be forever grateful. Ahmed _

_ Alright. Tell her to send me an email. SH _

_ Will do. Ahmed _

_ And, Sherlock, Mike insists we all go for a meal someday. Non-negotiable. Ahmed _

_ Fine. SH _

***

When Sherlock walks into Laurie’s hospital room, Mycroft isn’t anywhere to be found. His son’s chest rises and falls – evidence that he is breathing comfortably in his sleep – and Sherlock regrets ever saying that ‘breathing is boring’. Breathing… has never been so beautiful.

It’s late. Where did Mycroft go?

Leaving the bag on the nightstand, Sherlock scours the hospital hallways of the unit. The night shift nurses are typing away at their workstations. He doesn’t see his brother. So – he decides to take a walk, despite his tiredness. He suspects he isn’t going to get a decent night’s sleep anyways in a hospital room. 

He finds Mycroft at the empty chapel, just outside the unit. The room is dimly lit, with stained glass. Strange place. Big brother leans towards agnosticism, rather than any form of organized religion. Mycroft sits on a pew, his back slumped – and if Sherlock’s eyes aren’t deceiving him in the light – there might even be a tear or two. Taking a breath, he walks in. Unsure of what exactly he could do to ease his Omega’s misery. 

“My?” Sherlock whispers, after resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sherlock.” His brother’s voice is hoarse. He pets the space next to him – and Sherlock obediently sits.

“I didn’t know you –”

“Oh no. It’s quiet here at night. No beeping sounds. No people. I discovered this place the first time Laurie was hospitalized.”

“Ah… anything… you want me to do, lover mine?” 

“No. There isn’t anything. Sometimes…” Mycroft sighs deeply. “I wonder if I made the right choices… I can’t help thinking… that Laurie’s suffering is my fault.”

“Mycroft. No – it’s not. You did what you thought was best at that time.” Sherlock turns his neck to nuzzle at his brother’s neck – inhaling in his scent. 

“I was the one who forgot to get my birth control shot. I was the one to have him against medical advice. I didn’t… I didn’t even tell you. Sherlock.” 

Damn. Mycroft is an absolute mess. And Sherlock feels like he is totally out of his depth to deal with this. Usually – it’s the other way around. Him being the mess; Mycroft being the rock. 

“My – you are human.”

“This from the man who calls me the British Government –”

“No. Mycroft. You are human. I was an idiot. Maybe I still am an idiot.” Sherlock cannot help but smile. “I see you, My. Not as the British Government – but as the Omega I fell in love with. Who ensnared me –”

“By going into heat –”

“My. No. Yes – that’s what made me realize it –”

“Brother – you do know that there is a ‘bond’ of sorts that forms between an Alpha and an Omega when they share a heat? Complicated biochemistry. It’s why long term friends-with-benefits don’t work out between Alphas and Omegas without feelings being involved.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs – feeling slightly frustrated. He gets up and kneels in front of his brother – needing to look at him directly in the eye. “No – you did not manipulate me into falling in love with you. I am aware of the fact that you just presented. But – I am also aware that repeated intercourse and scenting is required to maintain and grow it. And we didn’t do any of that in four years! Or every Alpha and Omega would just bond with the first person they had sex with. And My – if I didn’t…” He swallows awkwardly, and he resists the urge to look away. “If I didn’t fall in love with you – I might have been dead. It was the thought of you that kept me going during the worst of it. You know. In Serbia. In other places. You gave me strength.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft reaches for his hand.

“Things happen. Mycroft. The world is stochastic chaos. We can go crazy trying to find reason where there might be none. And – it will take time for Laurie to get better. Immune system–wise. My – I promise you this – you're not alone anymore. We are partners in all things. Come – let’s go back to the room – I have a surprise for you.” Sherlock stands up and helps pull Mycroft up to his feet. 

“You’ve – you’ve really grown up.” Mycroft looks at Sherlock in some sort of awe.

“And we will keep that between you and I.” Sherlock winks. 

“God. How I adore you.” Mycroft leans forward and kisses him. 

“Mm… and I, you.” Sherlock smiles as they start walking out of the chapel.

“And – you brought a piece of cake!” 

“Yes – my deductive genius –”

“Now you sound patronizing –”

“My – let’s not let old habits wander into our relationship.”

“Oh – the bickering?”

“If you want to call it that – sure.”

“It does take  _ two  _ to bicker.”

“Yes, but let me feed you cake first.”

“Mm… so you can declare victory when I am in a state of postprandial somnolence.” 

“Exactly – ouch!” 

Sherlock rubs at his bum, where Mycroft had pinched it none-too-gently. 


	16. Chapter 16

**XVI.**

Blinking in the darkness, the foreign linens, pillow and mattress remind Sherlock that he isn’t home. There is the regular ticking of the clock and the click-click of the IV pump. And that hospital smell… But for once, he isn’t the patient. The empty space next to him is warm – and smells of big brother… He inhales deeply – deriving comfort from the residual scent. Fumbling around, he finds his phone in the corner, and he checks the time. A few minutes before five in the morning… probably an hour or two before the first physicians come to make their morning rounds. 

Sitting up, he scans the room with the aid of his phone. Mycroft had left their makeshift bed to curl up next to Laurie in his hospital bed, still clad in the shirt and trousers that he had worn the previous day. He remembers his Omega telling him that he liked to sleep next to Laurie whenever he is ill to listen closely to his breathing. The soothing inhale and exhale. Just in case anything happened overnight. It’s adorable. Walking over to the bathroom, Sherlock flicks on the light, and snaps a shot of the two with his phone, before closing it. He checks the candid photo he had just taken, and he smiles. His two most favourite people in the world. 

“Lock?” Laurie is awake, his bright eyes looking around the room. The nasal cannula is off now, as his little son has been breathing fine on his own since dinner. “Lock…?” 

“Shh… Laurie. Daddy is still asleep.” Sherlock whispers. Placing his phone in his shirt pocket, he reaches over to pick up Laurie, minding his peripheral IV line. He cradles his son in his arms, and Laurie leans forward to scent Sherlock’s neck gland – taking in those Alpha pheromones that would help strengthen his immune system. “You are getting big now.” 

“Mm… want to be big and strong.” Laurie murmurs. “Like Superman.” 

“Then you better keep doing what Daddy tells you to do. Even if you don’t like it.” Sherlock leans over to drape Laurie’s blankets over his still-slumbering brother. 

“Even if boring?” 

“Especially if it’s boring.” Sherlock grins. This is his son alright. He gives a quick peck to Laurie’s forehead. “Want to go for a walk?”

“Yeah.” Laurie mumbles against Sherlock’s neck. “Thirsty.” He then adds. “Want ice chips.”

“Want orange juice instead?”

“Not as good as Daddy’s orange juice.” Laurie replies in the negative as he shakes his head. 

Ah, definitely Mycroft’s son. A gourmet palate at this tender age. Freshly squeezed oranges versus processed. With his free hand, Sherlock unclips Laurie’s pulse-oximeter, grabs the IV pole and they flee the hospital room, after sending Mycroft a text.

_ Gone for a walk with Laurie. Be back soon. SH _

***

As Sherlock paces the dimmed hallways, Laurie cuddles up close to him, resting his head on his shoulder, close enough to be able to sniff at his scent gland. The IV pole comes along with them, a quiet companion. His little son is still fatigued by his illness, content to let Sherlock carry him. Laurie’s nurse stops them to take a quick set of vitals, while Sherlock thanks her for not waking them up earlier when Laurie had still been sleeping. Hospitals are notorious for ruining a good night’s sleep – as Sherlock would know. They sneak into the pantry and pilfer some ice chips, a cup of apple juice and a few packets of graham crackers (Laurie’s favourite) while Sherlock explains to a drowsy Laurie that one could deduce the code to the door lock by examining how worn the buttons are. His son drinks some of the apple juice, eats some of the ice chips and manages one cracker before they continue onwards. 

“Sleepy.” Laurie murmurs to Sherlock when they reach the end of a hallway, where there is a window looking out towards the Thames. 

“Mm… then sleep, little one.” Sherlock tenderly cradles his son in his arms, using his fingers to caress his curls. 

“Will you be there when I wake up?” Laurie asks – his words barely coherent.

“Yes, dear one – of course.” Sherlock smiles, lifting his son up slightly to kiss his cheek. “Hopefully we will be able to go home soon.”

“Home…!” Laurie exclaims, before stifling a yawn. 

“Yes, home.” Sherlock says with conviction. 

Home… He thinks as Laurie drifts into dreamland. How frequently he had thought of it when he had been out dismantling Moriarty’s damnable web! Of course back then, he had been dreaming about Baker Street. His own bed. His Strad. His chair. A properly brewed cuppa. Mrs. Hudson. His clothes. And of course… John. His… (former?) best friend. Being his brilliant self again, clad in his Belstaff and scarf, off chasing another thrilling adventure. Another case solved. A post for John’s blog. 

But now… home is where his heart lies. He hardly ever thinks about his old bachelor life these days. Home is with his little son, and soon to be mate. His Omega. His lover. He had thought of Mycroft frequently during the time he had been gone, but it hadn’t been reality then. Nor had he dreamed that when he had gone away, Mycroft had faced his own challenges – and suffered… perhaps as much as he had suffered. Or worse. Each fighting their own battles. 

Oddly enough, he cannot imagine Mycroft being pregnant. His brother had managed to lose all the excess weight before Sherlock had returned. He wonders if Mycroft has any pictures… or had he been too self-conscious to take such things? Especially since his belly had been the source of such insecurity. Hm… And then when Laurie had been born prematurely after what had appeared to be an arduous pregnancy course, Mycroft had spent a lot of time in the hospital. His brother had never elaborated on the experience, and it seriously made Sherlock wish desperately that he had been there. To help. To understand. No doubt his brother’s days had been fraught with worry – for Laurie and for himself. Suddenly, he feels the need to be near Mycroft, so he turns around and heads back to Laurie’s room – after readjusting his son in his arms. 

***

“Oh, there you are.” Mycroft looks up from Laurie’s bed when Sherlock had walked into the room. “You two gave me quite a fright.” 

“I did text.” Sherlock gently places Laurie back down onto the bed while Mycroft tucks their son into the blankets and clips back on the pulse-oximeter.

“I know. I saw. Afterwards.” Mycroft nods. 

“He was thirsty so we went to go find something. I am sorry, brother mine – but you were so peacefully asleep that I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s alright, darling.” Mycroft climbs out of the bed, and reaches for Sherlock who readily walks over to the far side of the bed. They share a kiss. “The resident came by while you were gone – she says if Laurie is fine when the consultant rounds – he can be discharged home in the afternoon.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Sherlock sits back down on the makeshift bed in the corner of the room, and pulls Mycroft down with him. “Are you going back to work today?”

“No. Anthea will handle whatever she can. I will have to go in on Monday.” 

“We can have a cozy weekend together then…”

“That sounds nice.” Mycroft rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Many minutes later, Sherlock asks – cautiously. “Mm… brother… I am curious about something.”

“When are you not?” Mycroft muses.

“Do you have any pictures of when you were pregnant?” 

Oh dear god. Good Lord. Mycroft shudders. Sherlock wants to see those? He is tempted to say no, but that would be a lie. He had taken a few for documentation purposes – evidence that he had gone through this crazy process of procreation. 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to show me.” Sherlock rests a hand comfortingly on Mycroft’s thigh. “Although I am certain that you would have been gorgeous.”

At the end, Mycroft had felt like a whale. He had felt anything but gorgeous. And it had been so hard, physically. Besides the hyperemesis gravidarum (severe vomiting that had prevented him from keeping anything down) earlier on in his pregnancy, he also had some other serious issues – which ultimately forced the OB/GYN to induce for an early labour and delivery. All Mycroft could be thankful for is that they hadn’t needed to do a c-section. His poor belly didn’t need another blemish. He sighs. Sherlock should see the pictures.

An arm snakes around Mycroft’s lower back, and Sherlock whispers in his ear. “Brother, it’s alright. I don’t –”

“No, I think you should see them. They aren’t exactly… flattering.” 

The insecurity in Mycroft’s voice depresses Sherlock. He watches as Mycroft pulls out his phone from a pocket and with a few taps, opens a photo album that is locked with a password. Oh wow – his brother had taken  _ selfies! _ Intrigued, Sherlock leans forward a little to look at the first image – Mycroft standing in front of his bathroom mirror with his shirt partially unbuttoned revealing a flat trim belly. 

“That was the day I had the pregnancy officially confirmed.” Mycroft explains, before flipping to the next image.

A photo of his brother in a striped hospital gown facing a mirror. Mycroft had held up the front of the gown, revealing again his abdomen. His brother looks gaunt – exhausted – and rather than have gained weight, Sherlock could see that Mycroft had lost a decent chunk. 

“Couldn’t stop throwing up – I don’t even remember how I ended up in the hospital, to be honest. It was awful. I stayed in the hospital at least a week. I was so sick of applesauce afterwards… one of the few things I could get down towards the end. This was at the end of the first trimester… Anthea was invaluable…” Mycroft drifts off – obviously reminiscing about those days. 

“Mm, you aren’t showing…” Sherlock observes.

“No, brother – it-it didn’t become obvious until the sixth month.” 

“Wish I had been there.” Sherlock says, finding himself rather envious of Anthea. It’s almost startling – how this Alpha instinct to protect, care for and cherish his Omega had come on in the past few weeks. 

“So… did I.” Mycroft turns to look at him; Sherlock can see his wistful little smile lit by the screen of his phone. “I was devastated when your clothes stopped smelling like you – Sherlock. And then after Dr. Watson left Baker Street, I slept in your bed whenever Mrs. Hudson was gone for the night for her bridge nights. I missed you – so much. Whenever I was in the hospital… it made the yearning worse.” 

“Oh, My…” Sherlock gently turns to kiss his brother on the cheek. “I am sorry I couldn’t do more.” 

“Don’t be. We each had our own objectives to accomplish, dearest.” Mycroft focuses his attention back on his phone, and swipes to the next photo. 

“Wow…” Sherlock smiles at the picture – seeing the slightest swell of his Omega’s belly. “That’s Laurie right there.” He wants to reach out and touch it. 

Mycroft swipes again. The bump is much more pronounced this time – and Sherlock notices the gentle swells of his brother’s chest hidden behind his crisp white shirt. God… it’s stunning. Seeing his brother’s body change to prepare for delivery of their kit. He’s sorry that he missed it. 

His brother takes his silence rather negatively. “Not very attractive – is it not?”

“Mycroft, no – god – no. You are gorgeous.” At his Omega’s flabbergasted look, Sherlock moves in – kissing him fiercely – needing to show his earnestness. It takes his brother a few seconds to return it – and Sherlock slips his tongue in to mingle with Mycroft’s. When they break apart – Sherlock presses his pelvis gently against Mycroft. “See what you do to me, beautiful Omega?” 

His brother actually giggles (a sound that Sherlock has certainly never heard within recent memory) and says between bouts of barely suppressed laughter. “Oh Sherlock – Sherlock – I never imagined that you would be like this. All typical Alpha male.” 

“It’s the hormones – big brother.” Sherlock grins – happy that he could flip the mood. “And I don’t care how absurd or cheesy I sound.” 

“Mm… I wish I could do something about  _ that… _ ” Mycroft looks directly at Sherlock’s tented crotch. “But, really we shouldn’t be having sex in our son’s hospital room.”

“You were always the responsible one.” Sherlock sighs jokingly. 

“I will make it up to you later, Alpha.” With a wink, Mycroft bends down to kiss Sherlock’s fabric-covered cock. 

“Naughty.” Sherlock finds himself grinning. “I love you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sits back up and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “Only for you.” He then swipes to the last image in the series. 

A picture of Mycroft sitting next to an incubator housing the tiniest kit that Sherlock had ever laid eyes on. It’s Laurie – probably the day after he was born. 

“They whisked him away to the neonatal ICU as soon as I delivered.” Mycroft explains. “I didn’t really get to see him until a day later – and even then – Anthea had to push me in a wheelchair. I was so weak – Sherlock. And I should tell you – Anthea is the godmother of our child. It was only fitting.” 

“I figured as much.” Sherlock says rather quietly. “We owe her a lot.”

“Yes.” Mycroft agrees. And then he admits. “She brought me Pączki at three in the morning once. I was quite embarrassed – but relieved. I don’t even know where she got them to this day at that hour.”

“Cravings.” Sherlock says.

“Yes. Perhaps you should be glad that you were spared all this nonsense.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t know, Mycroft – it all seems like a rather intriguing experience.”

***

“I think she was giving me the stink eye.” Sherlock remarks as he gathers all of their loose things from the hospital room after the rounding team of doctors had left and given them the discharge paperwork. 

Mycroft sighs as he helps Laurie change out of his hospital gown – helping him put on his t-shirt, hoodie and a pair of jeans. The paediatric consultant heading rounds today is Dr. Jones – or Dr. Amanda as Laurie liked to call her – is a specialist in immunodeficiencies related to the inadequate exposure to Alpha pheromones during a kit’s development. She had known Laurie ever since he had been born – and sees him regularly in her outpatient clinic. Mycroft had never talked to her about Sherlock – but as soon as Sherlock had introduced himself as Laurie’s sire – he had known that she could not help but to judge Alphas that had not been there during an Omega’s pregnancy. And he could understand this – as statistically, many kits who develop these sorts of disorders have them because their Omega parent had shared a heat with a deadbeat Alpha. Who couldn’t even spare the time to scent the Omega and kit during the critical period of development. Or had abandoned them partway through.

“I am sorry, Sherlock. I never told her about you. And she sees Laurie several times a year.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I should have been there when you needed me, My.” 

“Brother, no – that would have been too dangerous. For both of us. We both had our roles to play, Sherlock – as you remember.” 

“I know. Mycroft. It doesn’t make it any easier. I missed a lot.” Sherlock sighs, looking at Laurie, who is now attempting to tie his shoelaces on his own. 

“You can go take Laurie to see Dr. Jones next time then. If you want.” Mycroft offers. 

“Then I should do that. You know – My – I don’t usually care about what other people think of me, but I do find myself caring about what other people think of me as Laurie’s parent.”

“That’s a good thing, brother.” Mycroft stoops down to help Laurie with his shoes. 

Sherlock puts on his coat, scarf and gloves and waits patiently for Mycroft to gather all his things and to do one last sweep of the room to check for misplaced belongings before they finally leave the hospital. 

***

“Mm… this is cozy.” Sherlock murmurs to Mycroft as they cuddle in an elaborate blanket fort erected in the middle of the living room with clotheslines, bed sheets, blankets, pillows and a mattress. A temporary nest. Strings of Christmas lights festoon the space, adding a merry glow. 

“Was Laurie’s idea. He wanted a castle.” Mycroft smiles at his brother. “We built it while you went grocery shopping.”

“Ghastly. Having fun without me, while I had to peruse the vegetables and avoid the troublings of goldfish. I suppose you two will put up the Christmas tree the next time you need me to run an errand?”

“Oh, my silly knight. Doing battle with the hapless crowds and questing for unspoiled vegetables!” Mycroft leans over to brush a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. He then frowns. “What does that make me in this analogy?” 

“Forget that, what’s my reward – my princess?” Sherlock winks, earning himself an elbow. 

Laurie bursts inside the fort – his face full of mischievous glee. He runs onto the mattress and climbs into Sherlock’s arms, his nose seeking out his scent gland. Sherlock sighs, while Mycroft mouths the words. “Later.” 

Mycroft then muses. “If we are going to be gone for the holidays, do we even need to put up the Christmas tree?”

“Brother, what kind of a question is that? Of course there needs to be a tree. Where are we going to put the presents under?”

“Presents!” Laurie exclaims excitedly. “Want present!”

“I know, Laurie – we will do presents before we go on our trip.” Mycroft runs his fingers fondly through Laurie’s curls. 

Sherlock reaches for his phone when it vibrates with his free arm.

_ How are you doing? GL _

_ And how is Laurie today? You did tell me that he got released from the hospital yesterday. GL _

_ I’m okay. Cuddling with my Omega in a blanket fort after braving the local Tesco. SH _

_ Laurie is running wild around the house. SH _

_ Kits bounce back fast. SH _

_ Intriguingly romantic. GL _

_ Ah… that’s how I know its love. The Great Sherlock Holmes doing the groceries. GL _

_ I am glad that Laurie’s okay. GL _

_ Yeah, they do. The little buggers. Look half-dead one day and they are bouncing on the bed the next. GL _

_ By the way, Naomi wants to play with Laurie. GL _

_ Are you asking for another playdate? SH _

A hand grabs at Sherlock’s wrist. “Who are you texting so vigorously, brother mine? Should I be jealous?”

Laurie had left to play with the blocks outside the fort while Sherlock had been texting. He looks up to find himself gazing into Mycroft’s beautiful blue eyes. They twinkle with jest, but there is an iota of worry in there. And his brother has really nice eyelashes... Oh shit. Sherlock realizes. He hadn’t told Mycroft about Greg sussing out their change in relationship status. 

“Sherlock…?” Mycroft is looking concerned now. 

“Um… I am texting Greg…” Sherlock starts with the easy part. 

“Greg?” Mycroft’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “When did you start calling him by his real name?”

Oh god. Is Mycroft jealous of old Greg? The Beta? Absurd! “Oh, My – there’s absolutely no need for you to be jealous of Lestrade… But –”

“But, what?” The grip around Sherlock’s wrist is starting to hurt now.

“Mycroft – please just let me say it without an interruption. It’s hard enough. Greg… uh… he found out about us on Friday… He knows that you are my Omega. And he’s fine with it.” 

“He’s fine with it?” Mycroft is surprised. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes, and he wants to know if Laurie can see Naomi again. Another playdate.”

“Oh…” Mycroft exhales with relief while finally releasing Sherlock’s poor abused wrist. “Of course, Laurie can see her. There’s lots of things you could take them to do these days – the Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park, skating – Kew Gardens – to name a few. Just keep a close eye out on him, he might be still weak from his illness.” 

“Okay, I will. But, brother – wouldn’t you like to come with us?” Sherlock asks.

“I would, but –” Mycroft hesitates a moment. “Wouldn’t I be intruding?”

“Intruding on what? Last time I checked, I am dating you – not Greg – unless you need to tell me something, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shakes his head – opting to scent Sherlock instead.

Sherlock sighs happily as the hormones calm him. Bending his neck a little, he brushes a tender kiss on Mycroft’s forehead. He says with a wistful air. “I wish we could bond sooner rather than later – I don’t like you getting jealous over nothing, brother mine – even though it is.... endearing.” 

“That’s not happening until January, unfortunately.” Mycroft’s voice is muffled in Sherlock’s neck. “And it’s still possible to cheat while bonded – you do know that?”

“I do know that. But Mycroft – I would never voluntarily cheat on you.” Sherlock looks pleadingly at him. “I love you. You know. More than anything.” 

Mycroft kisses him. Thoroughly. When they break, Sherlock smiles at his brother – feeling giddy on oxytocin, dopamine and the other potent Alpha/Omega biochemistry. Just as Mycroft’s hand reaches to cup Sherlock’s cheek – a phone starts ringing. 

“That’s yours, brother dear.” Sherlock remarks.

“I do know that – thank you.” Mycroft finds his phone and sighs at the display. “It’s Mummy.”

At his brother’s lack of action, Sherlock inquires amusedly. “Are you ever going to pick it up?”

His brother gives him a look of despair. He mutes the phone instead.

“She does know that I am back, right – brother?”

“Anthea told them.” Mycroft admits sheepishly. “She called them.” 

“I guess I will wait for her to call me, and I will answer. I will tell her that I have a case overseas during the holidays and that you are going to help me out with it.” Sherlock decides – feeling utterly ridiculous that he’s volunteering to do this. Usually he is the one avoiding Mummy’s calls, and Mycroft is the one scolding him for breaking their Mother’s heart. “But you do know, dearest mine – someday, somehow – they will eventually find out?”

“I will take my chances.” 

Sherlock yelps when Mycroft tackles him to hug him fiercely and Mycroft says fondly. “Mm… brother – you are too good to me.” 

The bed sheets covering one side of the fort part. “Daddy!? I am hungry!” Laurie informs loudly.

“Guess I will start making dinner then.” Mycroft gives Sherlock one last kiss, before reluctantly getting up from the mattress. “How does Greek chicken sound?”


	17. Chapter 17

**XVII.**

Mycroft sighs when Sherlock nuzzles his neck, triggering that familiar rush of hormones into his bloodstream. His brother’s fingers are gently combing through the tufts of dark fur on his chest, and are ever so slowly migrating southward toward his belly. It feels like he’s floating on a cloud. A remarkably fluffy cumulus cloud. The lips, tongue and teeth expertly follow, leaving a trail of pleasure in their wake – fueling the slow-simmering, yet comfortable heat that is building within him and between them. His brother had only returned from Serbia slightly over a month ago, and yet – it feels like they’ve been at this for a long time. A lifetime. He can’t even imagine what life would be like without his Alpha. His brother had always been important and dear to his heart, but now – he is indispensable. Essential. 

There is a reverence in how Sherlock approaches his midriff, his digits caressing every centimetre with a perfect amount of pressure. It’s almost… contemplative. Mycroft’s belly had always been his bane of existence, considered too portly by his relatives for an Omega. And all the fur on his body! Generous in all the wrong places, and sparse where it ought to be dense. When he had been younger, he had used to shave – keeping his torso bare. If Sherlock ever asked him to, he would do it again. But, little brother appears to not care one whit, even seeming to adore the soft hair all over his body. Sherlock had mentioned once that it was ‘sexy’. 

In his adulthood, he had almost compartmentalized away his identity as an Omega, focusing on his career – the only reminder of his Omegahood had been his heats. His suits had been tailored to intimidate rather than to attract – and it baffles him at times – why Sherlock finds him attractive at all. Especially the body part that he’s touching now – Sherlock’s eyes seem to gaze at it in awe. And his fingertips seem to seek out the remnants of his  _ striae gravidarum,  _ those damnable stretch marks that Mycroft slathers cream on religiously even now to minimize the scarring. 

Come to think of it, Sherlock had really become obsessed with his abdomen after the day Laurie had been discharged from the hospital. And, with that – Sherlock’s thought process instantly becomes transparent to him. Imagining him growing gravid with kit – their Laurie. His brother lowers his head and actually places featherlight kisses on his stretch marks, letting an edge of one of his glorious zygomatic arches graze lightly over his skin – causing gooseflesh to form. 

Then a possessive hand is deliberately placed centrally over his belly, covering his navel. His brother’s tone is rather strange, unreadable – but his eyes seem to soften as they look into his own. “Laurie grew in here.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft can’t help but to be lost in those irises, which appear more blue-brown in the glow of the lamplight. And then, his next deduction takes his breath abruptly (almost violently) away when Sherlock’s gaze seems to grow more feral – more possessive. 

_ Good Lord, Sherlock wants another kit. _ It’s frightening – how powerful the innate baser instincts are. And… he’s forty-one now, not exactly prime kit-bearing age. Despite this, he can feel that familiar urge – the need to be fucked, to be bred, to be filled with Sherlock’s kits. Good god. He had thought that being bred once would have put that old urge to rest, but – 

God. The way his Alpha is looking at him now. The ferality had spread from his eyes to the rest of his body, and soon their lips are meeting together in a frantic crash. His hands are pawing and groping at Sherlock’s shirt, desperate to come into contact with naked flesh – practically ripping it off, while Sherlock is aiming to devour him. They both gasp when their groins come into contact with each other. There is no finesse, only the grace of an out of control wildfire – and it isn’t long (or rather not soon enough) that Sherlock has his nose and tongue buried in his naked rear end while he lies on his front, enduring this exquisite torture as that slick muscle works itself deeper and deeper into his cloaca with firm strokes – licking out all that endogenous slick that he is producing despite not being in estrus.

“God. Sherlock… please!” Mycroft recognizes these words interspaced with obscene mewls and other frantic desperate noises. “Please…” He sobs. “It’s not enough…”

“What do you want?” The words are growled. 

“Fuck me.” He gasps. “Fuck me, Lock. Breed me. Fill me –”

There’s hardly any warning when Sherlock’s arms are wrapped around his middle, and that massive Alpha cockhead is nudging at his entrance, while sharp teeth scrape both tantalizingly and dangerously against his unmarked skin. 

“Please…” Never had Mycroft wanted something so much. 

“I want to fuck you, brother. I want to put another kit in you. I want to watch you grow fat and plump, Omega.” The words are fiercely uttered. Sherlock’s breaths tickle the curve of Mycroft’s ear, punctuating each syllable – intensifying the need growing in his core. “Do you find this – amenable?”

“Please.” It comes out as a whimper. His heart seems to stutter painfully at this revelation. Deducing it is one thing, but hearing his Alpha put this basic want into words… nothing has ever sounded so erotic, so right. “Sherlock… yes…” 

He hardly recognizes the shout when Sherlock fucks straight into him, his Omega slick and Alpha’s saliva barely adequate lubrication to ease the way. But he relishes the edge of pain – the organ stretching him, filling him up in all the ways he craved. His brother’s hands are stroking his chest – the only thing that is tender about this brutal fuck, while his teeth are working at his neck, leaving possessive marks. Mycroft had never been taken like this – in a position where he couldn’t see his brother, but the cock is able to penetrate him deep in a way that Sherlock hadn’t been able to do in their usual preferred coital configurations. His own fingers are fisting the sheets, while he thrusts his arse to meet every one of Sherlock’s strokes – needing more to fill the throbbing need. 

A sob leaves him when he feels the knot beginning to inflate; it seems like too much – but at the same time, it’s just what he needs. He can hear Sherlock’s breaths grow increasingly laboured and stilted as he is about to summit, and soon the growing knot is rubbing so deliciously against all the right places and a howl is wrenched from him when he cums – when Sherlock forces his knot into him for the last time – locking them together. His cloaca clamps down tightly and he practically spurts again – feeling a secondary rush of pleasure when Sherlock bites down hard on his neck gland as he ejaculates, filling Mycroft with bursts of hot seed. 

They collapse in a tangle of limbs – and Mycroft is so dazed and out of breath that he’s literally seeing stars. A sadness goes through him, despite the hot cum that fills him – as close to heat as this had felt, it isn’t – and his womb will remain barren. It’s ridiculous how sex could change his worldview so quickly. To make him realize that this is another something else that he had wanted. 

His brother licks at his gland, causing him to gradually relax. “Sh.. Mycroft.” Sherlock whispers tenderly, his voice back from whatever devilry had possessed it earlier. “It’s okay if you don’t want it.” 

“No, Sherlock – I do.” Mycroft replies. “We were going to have to talk about it anyways, since to bond –”

“Yeah, I know. No exogenous hormones.” Sherlock presses affectionate kisses against his face. 

“But, you – you do want it. A kit. A… sibling for Laurie.” 

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, and he admits. “Yes. Ever since you showed me those photos, I couldn’t –”

“Woken up the Alpha in you? Your desire to ruin your Omega – or rather your big brother further?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock smirks against Mycroft’s neck. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing you went away for so long. We would be outnumbered by –”

Sherlock laughs. Such a delightful rumble against his skin. “I think two is plenty. I just… want to experience this with you, Mycroft. Make up for the first time.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighs when his brother twists a bit further to kiss his cheek. He would like that – to do this together with his Alpha and Laurie. Even though he can’t see his brother, he can feel the love and affection radiate from his beautiful eyes. And then he says. “You know that I am over forty now, one heat might not –”

“I know. If you want to, we can keep trying.” Sherlock suggests. “Did you see that study in  _ Science _ that was recently put out on first-degree Alpha-Omega pairs?”

“Yes.” Mycroft knows that the risks of procreating with such a closely related relative now are minimal – an Omega’s body seems to have a stringent selection on which embryos make it past the first trimester. It’s why he would even entertain the idea of a second child. The stress of having Laurie had been too much – worrying that there may be something genetically wrong with him. “It makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint.”

“Mm… yes. How many Alpha and Omega siblings in the past couldn’t keep their paws off each other, hm?” Sherlock wonders with amusement. “Segregation of the sexes could only do so much against primitive instincts. I bet – if we were closer in age – we would have been fucking years ago.” 

“Ha.” Mycroft exhales shakily. “Perhaps it's a good thing Anthea took Laurie for tonight, we were rather loud.” 

Sherlock starts sliding his cock out, as the knot has deflated, but Mycroft clenches immediately, causing his Alpha to gasp in surprise and whimper in oversensitivity. He pleads. “Just keep it in there a little longer?”

“Fine. It’s barely filling you though –”

“I just want you in me.” 

“You are a sap, you know.” Sherlock nuzzles him. “I love you dearly, My.”

“I do too. God, Sherlock – I never thought –”

“I know. My. Let me make up for those last few years, hm?”

“It’s not your fault, dearest. Circumstances –”

“But I feel like I let you down –”

“It’s not your fault. I had my reasons for not telling you. And it was to protect us both.”

“Rationality is a poor antidote for emotions, big brother.” 

Mycroft whines sadly when Sherlock’s flaccid prick finally slips out of him with a squelch, but he turns around and embraces his brother – wanting no distance between them. They cuddle while taking turns scenting each other in their big comfortable king-sized bed – taking the time to physically express their feelings and promises to each other in a gentler manner than the wild sex that they just had. 

***

“Hey! You! Man with the blue scarf!” 

Sherlock turns around quickly. He had just about been ready to leave one of Mycroft’s favourite bakeries to step out into the streets of Belgravia, his hand grabbing onto a bag stuffed full of treats. A box of colourful macaroons for Naomi, a selection of cookies including some Canelés de Bordeaux for Laurie, a loaf of sourdough, a few caramelized croissants rightfully named DKA (diabetic ketoacidosis, but Sherlock is sure that’s not the actual name) and several cronuts (the flavour of the month is plum jam with eggnog ganache) for the adults. Mostly for Mycroft though. 

He didn’t know what madness had descended over him yesterday, causing him to become all caveman-like and primitive.  _ I want to put another kit in you. I want to watch you grow fat and plump. Omega. _ God. The pregnancy with Laurie had caused his brother so much suffering, and he wants to do it again to Mycroft? 

But he had thought about it non-stop, how Mycroft would look swollen with his kit – how he would wait on his brother hand and foot, trying to do everything he couldn’t during the first time. He wants to be there for all the firsts this time, and he knows that Laurie would be delighted to have a little sibling. Someone to play with and love as he grows older. Perhaps not in the same way he loved his own sibling – but they are a special case. And his careless usage of fat and plump! He had been appalled when that had slipped out of his mouth, but this was the Alpha speaking to his Omega – and the Omega had taken it without insult – but with desire. How wanton big brother had been under him, so unrestrained – free to be the Omega that he is. Sherlock knows that this trust that Mycroft has in him is precious – and he hopes every day to remain worthy. And the aftermath – Sherlock’s shirt had been ripped beyond repair – while Mycroft’s neck and back had been marked up in all sorts of colours that looked rather painful in the morning. His brother could hardly walk straight. 

Yes – this trip serves as an apology. And even though he couldn’t see big brother’s face after the knotting, he had sensed the sadness Mycroft had felt at the end. Mycroft had wanted this hypothetical kit as much as he had. They would have to revisit the subject again along with bonding, since Mycroft had gone off his injection without telling him about it. He had seen the cancelled OB/GYN appointment in his brother’s personal calendar. Then again, they had agreed to bond, and Mycroft shouldn’t be on any artificial hormones during his bonding heat. In their relationship, Sherlock knows that it’s the things they do that ultimately matter, not necessarily the words – spoken or unspoken. And, it’s always been like that – even before they had gotten together. He sighs, bringing his attention to the mysterious woman who had called him out. 

There’s something familiar about her – the way her bluish-brown eyes look at him with great curiosity. Her hair is dyed an electric shade of blue, with purple highlights. She’s an Omega – Sherlock can tell even with the Beta-based perfume that she anoints on her neck glands. There is a shakiness about her that suggests that she had been a former alcoholic, but sober now – judging by her new (expensive) and chic clothes. He would know a former addict anywhere. She had bought them herself, with her earnings from a new job – working as a financial analyst at the Royal Bank of Scotland (her lanyard is poking out of her purse). God. This is – 

“Harriet.” Sherlock states, just as she says softly. “Sherlock Holmes.” 

She laughs after that, something about it reminds him of John. Not the John of now – but the John of before-the-Fall. “I never thought – never thought that I would ever get to see you in the flesh. The man who died and came back to tell the tale. But – you took my brother with you… if not physically – mentally.” 

There’s nothing on her countenance that indicates that she is upset or angry with the change in her brother – she states it as a fact. And Sherlock knows, based on how John had spoken of her in the past – that these two Watson siblings (despite sharing a secondary gender) are not close at all. There is a tumultuous relationship here that rivals his own with Mycroft’s at their worst before the Fall. Her manicured fingers rub nervously against each other, before she says. “I know you are busy, but do you mind if we have a chat? Their afternoon tea is rather yummy!” 

“Um, sure.” Sherlock finds himself being led to a comfy little table in the corner of the bakery. 

He does have time to kill before he meets with Lestrade for a quick briefing about a relatively straightforward case that they had just solved together. And he’s curious. He’s never met any of John’s relatives – and no one seems to know about what has happened to John during the years where Sherlock had been taking down Moriarty’s network – Mary aside of course. It would be a short meeting regardless, as Harriet would have to go back to work soon. This is her late lunch break. 

***

Mycroft can’t tell if Anthea wants to laugh or tell him off. His personal assistant, or rather – godmother of his child is standing in front of his desk while Laurie plays with his train set in the next room over – making happy little choo-choo noises. 

“Best if you sit down for the rest of the day, sir.” She manages. “Your gait is rather like –”

He snorts. “Like what? Like someone fucked me through the Earth? To New Zealand?”

“That… wasn’t quite what I was going to say, sir.” Anthea is almost suffocating from her suppressed mirth. “And, if you draw a line through the Earth from here, you would end up in the ocean –”

“I was just trying to make a joke, Anthea. In actuality, if you dug straight down here, you would end up near the International Date Line, close to New Zealand – in the South Pacific.” Mycroft is amused. “And, last time I checked, I was permitted a sex life.” 

“I know, sir.” And then she says shrewdly. “You are thinking about bonding.” Before Mycroft could interrupt, she adds. “You let him bite you yesterday during sex – you covered it well with makeup – but I can still tell. He drew blood.”

“Should I go redo the makeup before the meeting with the Cabinet?” Mycroft asks, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious. 

“No. Hardly anyone would pay any attention, anyways. And we aren’t changing the topic yet, sir – but bonding? You do realize that you can end up getting pregnant –”

“I do realize that. He would find it a welcome side-effect – actually.” 

Anthea’s brows shoot up alarmingly. “Oh, sir – are you sure that is wise?”

So many nuances in her tone. It’s evident that she is worried, and she has every right to be. She had been with him every step of the way as soon as she had found out about Mycroft’s pregnancy with Laurie. He would have never made it through without her. It’s safe to say that she has seen him at his worst. There is skepticism too, not of him – but for Sherlock. Mycroft had explained to her that it had been his choice not to tell his brother about Laurie, but somehow – she still holds it against his brother… even though none of it had been Sherlock’s fault. Oh, Sherlock had been responsible for many of Mycroft’s foul moods in the past, and Anthea knew it. It had certainly made her job much more difficult at times. At any rate, it didn’t tip the scales in Sherlock’s favour in her eyes. And there is the fact that Sherlock and he had only been together for a month. Nor is he getting any younger.

But a month can be a lifetime between an Alpha and Omega.

At the end of the day, it’s his choice to make. 

He nods. “I have the utmost faith in my Alpha.” 

Anthea sighs almost wistfully. “The sex must be fantastic.”

Mycroft simply winks at her. A Beta would never understand the intricacies between an Alpha and their Omega. Or rather, an Omega and their Alpha.

“Well, sir – you should prepare for your meeting then. And I sincerely hope that you make the right choice. For you.” She gives a final nod before walking out – letting the door shut behind her. 

Turning to his desktop, Mycroft scans the list of items that he would need to cover in his meeting, mentally going over all the details. He opens one of his drawers, and he takes out the small USB stick that had been found on Magnessun’s desk. It would be wise to copy the files elsewhere. Using what little time he has left, he runs a program to check for hidden malicious materials before duplicating all the material on a secure, isolated cloud that he had constructed specifically for this case. When it’s over, he shuts down his desktop and locks the stick back into the drawer. He would give the original to a few of his trusted agents, who have so far made no headway at all in elucidating the death of this blackmailing snake. It’s as if the assassin had vanished without a trace. They would have to watch and wait. And, he will give cloud access to his brother. They could look at it together at some point.

It makes him uneasy – not knowing what murderous entities are out roaming about freely on the streets of London.

***

“You know – I was so pissed at Johnny.” Harriet – or rather Harry says in between sips of the exclusive bespoke blend of tea provided by the establishment. “Our parents gave me so much grief about dating women – and then here he was – playing sidekick to your detective. You guys must have been –”

Sherlock winces. Talking about this brings him back to that day in the Morstans’ flat, where John had gone into heat. The closest they’ve ever got to fucking in all the years they’ve known each other. He could smell it – the scent of an Omega going into heat  _ (wrong! Not his!) _ , and the overpowering Claire de la Lune permeating the flat. If he ever has to be in proximity to that perfume again, there is a high likelihood that he will throw up. It’s not something he wants to think about.

“No. John and I. We were never like that.”

“You mean, Alpha and Omega have a flatshare, and they didn’t fuck? Not even for a heat? Get outta here!” Harry reaches for a buttery scone and slathers it in strawberry jam and clotted cream. “Oh – you are serious!” Her eyes peer into Sherlock’s own as she obtains verification for Sherlock’s denial. “You asexual then?” 

It’s refreshingly amusing. Harry is almost as blunt as he is. A bull in a fine china shop. She then deduces. “No – I don’t think so. According to Johnny – you don’t eat! Nor do you do the shopping. But – here you are in one of London’s finest bakeries – buying goodies! So. You pissed off some Omega and you are –”

“Trying to make amends, yes.” Sherlock finds it easier to go with the flow. 

“So you two didn’t even fuck – and when you died he became a widow! Unbelievable. Even I was scared for his liver – you know. Bloody bastard didn’t even invite me to his bonding ceremony – did’ya know that? Something about having an open bar. But it’s stupid! I was already sober at that point. I would have just drank sparkling water and some Sprite – and it would have been fine!” She takes a break to finish up her scone, before reaching for what is called a strawberry cube (strawberry mousse, almond sponge, chocolate). “And guess who is trying to get me back into their good books?”

“John.”

“Yes! He’s lonely and bored these days – could have told him that he picked the wrong sort of Alpha to tie himself to. I’ve had plenty of experience in this matter, as much as Johnny-boy hates to admit it – we go after the same type of fish. Of course, he lands the one Alpha out of hundreds in London that would enforce the Alpha’s Perogative on him. Too trusting, little brother. And he mentions that even you’ve been avoiding him?”

“The last few times I saw him weren’t exactly friendly…” 

“Ah, eat something – you beanpole!” Harry places a mushroom croquette on Sherlock’s plate with exasperation. “We’ve got to distribute the calories around! You must piss your Omega off with how lean you are. Lucky bloke.” When Sherlock takes a big bite, Harry looks satisfied and she moves on. “Let me guess, the first time you saw him – he punched you. Maybe even shoved you to the floor. Ah. That’s Johnny to a tee. Can’t express his negative feelings properly with words like everyone else. Can’t tell you how many detentions he got in primary school. And then the second time –”

“He went into heat.” Sherlock murmurs quietly, taking another bite of the tasty croquette. 

“No!”

“Yes.” 

“Oh my god. Johnny omitted that! Of course he did! Bugger always leaves out the critical details. It’s like he wants to hit you or fuck you. And of course – little brother is preggers again. And you fled?”

“Yes. I keep suppressants on my person at all times.” 

“Good. And I suppose you fucked the living shit out of your Omega afterwards.”

“I did.” 

“Good Alpha. Lucky Omega. I approve.” Harry grins widely, finishing the last of the nibbles. She pulls out her wallet and puts down the appropriate amount of money for the both of them before saying regretfully. “I will have to go back to work if I want to keep my job. Good talking to you Sherlock – we should keep in touch.”

They exchange phone numbers. 

***

“Daddy, are we going on that?” Laurie points to the enormous seventy-metre tall wheel lit up in all the colours of the rainbow. He grabs a fistful of chips from the fish & chips container that Sherlock holds out and happily munches on them.

“Yes! Yes! We are, Laurie!” Naomi eagerly watches as the wheel turns. “Dad bought us tickets! Let’s go! Let’s go! We gonna be so high up!”

Mycroft watches the two children as they start scampering toward the end of the queue for the giant observation wheel. His brother – whose arm is linked with his – pulls him along to follow the children. 

It feels strange. He’s dressed down in a pair of jeans that Sherlock had insisted that he wear, along with a shirt and cashmere jumper underneath his winter outerwear. Even his brother had shed his regular clothes, wearing a toque to cover his characteristic curls. Lestrade – now Gregory – had caught up with the children and is busy entertaining them by lifting them each in turn and spinning round and round – until all three of them are breathless with laughter and the children so dizzy that they are clutching onto Gregory’s trousers for dear life. 

“A piece of fish, My?” Sherlock cuts into his thoughts, offering a piece of battered halibut smeared in tartar sauce. 

Mycroft really should cut out the fried stuff in his diet, but before he could verbalize it, his brother had already brought the forkful to his mouth, and his mouth had taken the morsel in. It’s a carnival – he tells himself – it’s tradition to eat unhealthy things. And fish and chips is one of his favourite comfort foods – a trait that Laurie has apparently inherited.

“Oh, My –” Sherlock leans forward to nuzzle at the junction between his neck and chin – just above his scarf. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over such things, darling.” 

“I will try not to.” Mycroft grins wryly in response. Him – pretty? Sherlock really must be blind. But, he can’t really complain. He feels happy in a way that he had never felt before. It has essentially turned into a public date with his Alpha, while Gregory spent most of his time wrangling the children – which the detective inspector didn’t mind doing – clearly he enjoys it. 

“My bum is still frozen.” Sherlock admits as the queue moves forward. “That ice throne in that exhibit –” 

“I suppose warming it up for you would be an act of public indecency…” Mycroft grins, giving his brother’s coat-covered bum a playful swat. 

“Best not.” Sherlock smiles, ignoring the affront to his derriere. “Not here, anyways.”

They had taken off their coats to take a picture on one of the thrones made out of ice in the  _ Magical Ice Kingdom,  _ Sherlock had sat on the chair, Mycroft had sat on him and Gregory had done the photography. Laurie and Naomi had both climbed up Mycroft’s lap afterwards – and the copper had found a passerby who took a picture of everyone together. Laurie had been fascinated by all the ice sculptures of sea creatures and mythical figures – having spent much of it pretending that he was a shark – which had immediately provoked Naomi to start singing  _ Baby Shark _ which had immediately caused Gregory to rub at his temple. Mycroft can only deduce that the poor man had been subjected to possibly hours of the song over the course of Naomi’s life. 

“Want to go skating afterwards?” Sherlock asks. “We have time to fit in one more activity.” 

“I haven’t skated in a long time, Alpha mine.” God forbid he falls flat on his face. 

“I am sure you will be very graceful at it. And neither have I, for the record. Laurie would like it.”

“Laurie likes everything.” Mycroft admits, watching his son and Naomi playing rock-paper-scissors with Gregory. It’s better this way – Laurie having a friend close to his own age that he enjoys spending time with. “Once he’s had time to get used to it.”

“I am glad.” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “God, My – he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Next to you, of course.” His eyes soften as he speaks – and Mycroft can’t help but to lean forward and place the quickest of pecks on Sherlock’s cupid’s bow. Sherlock smiles when Mycroft moves away, looking young and carefree in a way that he had never seen his brother look before. They simply spend the next minutes just looking at each other, before Gregory interrupts. 

“Our ride is here.” The DI winks at them just as the children run straight into the open capsule. 

After Gregory goes in, Sherlock lets his brother go first, before ducking under the door slightly to get in himself. It isn’t long before their capsule starts moving forward with a lurch – causing the children to squeal with delight. Aside from sliding down the ice slide, neither of the children had gone on any amusement fair rides as Laurie doesn’t quite meet the height requirement yet – and Naomi had refused to go on them without Laurie. Naomi is chattering about all the lights they could see, while Laurie listens – before pointing out his own observations. Mycroft had taken off one of his gloves to hold one of Sherlock’s frigid hands. His brother’s hand is a comforting presence in his own, and he sighs when Sherlock gives his hand a squeeze. It’s nice to do this in front of Gregory – it seems to lend a legitimacy to their entire relationship. 

“I never thought I would enjoy this.” Sherlock observes.

“What is ‘this’, love?” 

“All of it. Riding a giant wheel. Going to an amusement park. Raising a child. Falling in love. Having a playdate with Greg. Holding hands.” 

“Falling in love?” 

Sherlock’s lips quirk into a small smirk. His brother knows that Mycroft is fishing for sappy words of affection. “Of course. I think I was falling before I even left, brother. When we were scheming Moriarty’s downfall, remember? Sometimes, I would catch you looking at me – and I was clueless. You loved me then.”

“I did, yes.” Mycroft leans just a little closer. “I still do.”

“I know. It would fill me with something warm. Contentment. I didn’t understand what that feeling was then. It was pleasant, but I didn’t connect it with sentiment until the last day.”

“Heat.”

“Yes.” Sherlock nods. 

“I was so afraid that I was taking advantage of you that day.” Mycroft’s voice is a whisper. 

“God. No. I wanted it.” Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “I think I was in love when I left. I didn’t want to leave.” He then says, his eyes bearing a bit of the desperation that he must have felt before he had slipped out of Mycroft’s bed, and out of his life for the next few years. His hand reaches for Mycroft’s belly, petting it. “I didn’t realize that I –”

“Left a momento?” Mycroft is amused. 

“Yeah.”

“You are rather obsessed with that part of my anatomy these days.”

Sherlock grins. “I am obsessed with you, Mycroft. I can’t wait until you are mine in all the ways that matter.” His irises darken – while his pupils dilate slightly. 

“Daddy, Lock – look!” 

Their moment is cut short when Laurie feels the desire to inform everyone that they’ve reached the peak of the wheel. Mycroft can see the fairgrounds, and further in the distance – the lights of his beloved London. They all crowd together on one end to take a selfie – before individual and various permutations of photographs are taken against the scenic backdrop below. The last photograph that gets shot is a picture of the three of them. Sherlock with his arm around Mycroft – Laurie sprawled across both their laps. And, it’s the same for him too – Mycroft reflects – that such mundanities of life have become so enjoyable with Sherlock by his side. 

***

“Go on, Laurie – step forward.” Sherlock encourages his son to step on the ice – Laurie teetering perilously on his blades.

“Lock. I – scared.” 

“I know. It’s okay. I will catch you if you stumble, dearest mine.” Sherlock says reassuringly, just as Mycroft skates by, coming to a stop with a spray of ice. 

“Here, why don’t I grab one arm, and you grab the other?” Mycroft suggests, offering one of his gloved hands to his little son. 

Laurie takes it, and Sherlock grabs the other. He still wonders where Laurie got his shyness from. But then again, Laurie had been a very sick infant growing up and big brother had been very protective. 

“You ready, tiger?” Sherlock asks, as Laurie gives a roar in response. 

Laurie gives a hesitant nod, before Sherlock starts counting. “One, two… and three!” 

They both swing him onto the ice – holding onto him as Laurie slides around unsteadily with his blades, threatening to fall and do the splits in the process. Eventually, he is able to stand on the ice, and Sherlock tells his son to march forward – and Laurie does. They glide together – Mycroft and he – slowly bringing along their wobbly son, doing circuits around the Christmas-ornamented gazebo in the middle of the artificial rink – the sky strung with countless garlands of colourful light. Sherlock leans down on occasion, telling and showing Laurie how to bend his legs, how to push forward and how to glide. It isn’t perfect, but with every lap they complete, Laurie perks up – gaining confidence. They pass by Naomi and Greg a few times – his daughter already proficient in the art of skating – able to skate without holding on to her Daddy. 

“You think you can try on your own?” Sherlock asks Laurie when they all skate to a stop. 

Laurie gives him a tentative look, but soon he is attempting to skate between both Mycroft and Sherlock – while the both of them are kneeling on the ice barely a few metres apart, freezing their legs off. Laurie stumbles and falls a handful of times – but he learns quickly how to stand up. Sherlock feels a certain kind of pride when Laurie is able to go back and forth without falling – even though such an event would now elicit a giggle from his little son, making him more determined to succeed. Just when Sherlock’s legs could bear the cold no more, Laurie collapses in his arms – worn out from the long but fun evening. He catches Mycroft’s eye, despite the dimness – and they non-verbally decide to call it a night. Hugging his son close, he presses a gentle kiss on his son’s reddened cheek. 

“You did good, Laurie mine. Shall we go home?”

His son nods sleepily. “Bed.” He says simply.

“Soon. Let’s skate off the rink first? Can you do that?”

“Yeah, Lock.” He mumbles. 

Sherlock stands up, and takes his son’s hand – and the two of them glide towards one of the sides, where they had left their possessions. 

***

Mycroft watches Sherlock talking to their son – his arms wrapped tightly around Laurie. Standing up from the ice, Mycroft brushes the ice off his knees, rubbing at them to bring some warmth back to thaw out his frozen lower extremities. He really can’t get enough of watching Sherlock interact with their son. From the distance, they look so similar – with their wild curls hidden under toques, their elegant noses and their matching blue scarves. Father and son. It is easily the cutest scene he’s ever seen, although Sherlock would passionately deny it. His heart melts further when he sees Sherlock give their boy a kiss, and he knows he can put all of Anthea’s concerns to bed when Sherlock skates off with Laurie in tow. He giggles, never feeling more like a stereotypical Omega in his life. Only his brother had ever made him feel this way. Damn, he wants more of Lock’s babies. 

Just one more. The second one would be just as adorable – he muses with a certainty as he allows his legs to carry him toward the edge of the rink, bringing him closer to the ones he loves. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spends a day with Laurie.

**XVIII.**

“We go see Dr. Amanda, Lock?” Laurie inquires from high above – perched on Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock stands at the wall, looking at the confusing myriad of arrow-shaped plaques bearing the names of various clinics that are located on the floor. “Without daddy?”

“Yeah, your Dad has his own appointments to go to today.” Sherlock finally finds the right plaque, and walks down the indicated hallway toward the door. He had seen Mycroft’s schedule today, and it had involved the dentist _ (shudder) _ and a rescheduled OB/GYN appointment _ (probably going to give his poor doctor a heads up before another Holmesian bun gets baked in the metaphorical oven). _ A preconception visit. 

Sherlock then giggles nervously. This was getting too real, the closer the New Year loomed. His Omega had cut out alcohol this week – and before Laurie and he had left today – Sherlock had seen the newly acquired and unopened bottles of prenatal vitamins and folic acid supplements sitting on the kitchen counter. It is so Mycroft – Sherlock muses – to be prepared. But then again, Laurie had caught him off guard the first time around, so no doubt Mycroft would be desperate to seize control of the second attempt… 

“Mask, Lock!” Laurie reminds him just before he steps into the waiting room.

“Oh. Right.” Sherlock pulls out the Ziploc baggie containing a toddler-sized surgical mask that Mycroft had given him earlier. It’s flu and god-knows-what season – and there is nothing like a paediatrics clinic to serve as the nidus of contagion. It’s not exactly an optimal location for an immunocompromised kit to hang about in. He takes out the mask and passes it up to his son, who giggles, takes it and remarks on the pattern. “Dinosaurs. Rawr!”

“Rawr, indeed.” Sherlock says dryly as he approaches the receptionist’s desk – wondering when was the last time he willingly went to the doctor’s. 

Ah, right – the day after he had returned – when John had reopened his stitches. As the receptionist checks Laurie in – he glances around – seeing a roomful of Omegas watching over their coughing and sniffling offspring… there’s only one other Alpha in here besides him. And she had come with her Omega – who is cuddling their little kit. Sherlock shakes his head. He’s glad he’s come then – he doesn’t want to be a _ useless _ Alpha stereotype. 

“Dr. Amanda has the best popsicles!” Laurie whispers confidentially in Sherlock’s ear. “You try!”

“It’s alright – Laur–”

“Lock try!” His son insists, and all Sherlock can do is nod and say, “Of course.” 

“Book?” Laurie points to a stack of dog eared books in the corner – and Sherlock walks over to pick one up – _ The Very Hungry Caterpillar. _ Sherlock flips open the book to the first page, and Laurie announces surprisingly. “I read.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. He’s never seen Laurie read to either Mycroft or himself. His son preferring to listen to his _ parents _ (Oh god, that’s what Sherlock is now; how terrifying?! Now is not the time to be freaking out, he reminds himself quickly – especially when Mycroft and he seem committed to gathering a second data point on the experiment of reproduction.) read to him. 

“In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf.” Laurie starts. Sherlock flips to the next page, and his son keeps going; gaining confidence with every syllable. “One Sunday morning the warm sun came up… and POP, out of the egg came a tiny, very hungry caterpillar.” 

There is a bit of a dramatic flair in his son’s voice, as he gets excited about the very hungry caterpillar devouring its way through one apple, two pears, three plums – and all the other absurd foodstuffs – one ice-cream cone, one pickle, one slice of Swiss cheese, one slice of salami, one lollipop – and hmm… Sherlock wonders if this is Laurie actually reading, or exercising his own considerable power of memory. This is one of Laurie’s favourite books after all. 

Either way, it is an impressive feat for a three-year-old. And does it even matter? If Laurie is doing this from memory, he can learn to associate the shape of the words on the page with the words in his recollections. And how did he even learn how to read? Sherlock muses as Laurie goes on.

“That night he had a stomach ache!” Laurie pantomimes a tummy pain – his interpretation of a stuffed and fat caterpillar. 

An image of Mycroft reading to him as a youngster comes to Sherlock’s mind – not children’s books, but whatever his brother had been reading at the time – Greek Mythology, _ The Art of War _ , _ The Jungle Book _ and even _ Pride and Prejudice. _Ghastly – Sherlock had thought – back in the old days, families of all classes worked hard to marry off all their Omega offspring – no doubt Mycroft (if he had been born in those days) would have handled it with the wit and aplomb as Elizabeth Bennett had done. Oh god – he cannot imagine himself playing the role of Darcy… Fitzwilliam – an even more bizarre take on William (his own dreadful first name). 

Best not, in the modern era – he can have his brother, but not in those days… they would be promptly disowned for their incestuous relations... but who is to say that won’t still happen? Mummy has no idea about what her children have gone and done… and will continue to do. Not that it mattered, they were both independent creatures who could support themselves and each other, but Sherlock knows that Mycroft would be hurt if their parents took it badly. 

“He built a small house, called a cocoon, around himself. He stayed inside for more than two weeks. Then he nibbled a hole in the cocoon, pushed his way out and… he became a beautiful butterfly! Butterflies, Lock – I wanna see them!” Laurie exclaims, finishing the book – and jumping on to a new topic. “Today! At the Butterfly House!”

“You don’t want to go see the Christmas displays at the stores?” Sherlock asks innocently, closing the book. “We can go see the butterflies another day – maybe with Naomi.”

“Naomi!” Laurie then sighs. “Miss her.” He then brightens. “We can buy presents for her!” 

“We can do that.” Sherlock finally opts to sit down, feeling his shoulders cramp from carrying Laurie for so long. His son slides down with a bit of help, and into his lap. Perhaps Mycroft and he should invite Greg and his daughter over when they do their early Christmas before leaving for Paris. Both children would love it.

His phone buzzes. 

_ Did you two make it to the doctor’s office? MH _

_ Yes, brother dear. I’ve forgotten how long the wait is. SH _

_ A necessary evil. MH _

_ How are your pearly whites? SH _

_ Scrubbed squeaky clean. No additional dental work required. Thank heavens. MH _

_ Did you know, brother, that Laurie can read? SH _

_ Like an entire book? Perfectly? SH _

_ Really? He’s always refused to even try. A first time then, for you. You did lament, brother mine, that you missed all of Laurie’s firsts. MH _

_ You’ve got to remember that he’s a combination of us, Sherlock. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has other tricks up his sleeve. MH _

_ I wish you were here. SH _

_ As do I, Alpha mine. MH _

“Say hi to dad!” Laurie glances over at Sherlock’s phone. 

“Of course, Laurie mine.” Sherlock presses a kiss against his son’s curls, and texts. 

_ Laurie says hi. SH _

_ Hello, Laurie. I hope you are being good for Lock. MH _

Curious, Sherlock simply shows the screen to Laurie. His son simply scoffs. “Course I am good for Lock.”

_ Well, that proves it. He can read. SH _

_ He wasn’t too impressed by your last sentence. SH _

_ Impertinence. It runs in the family. MH _

_ Ha. Ha. SH _

_ I am quite partial to it. MH _

_ Laurie, I expect you to read your dear old dad a bedtime story. MH _

“Yes!” Laurie bounces in Sherlock’s lap. “I read Dad – story! Tonight!”

_ He says he will tonight. SH _

_ Looking forward to it. MH _

“Laurence Holmes?” A nurse calls out from the hallway leading to the examination rooms.

“That’s me!” Laurie jumps and stumbles off Sherlock’s lap. “Come on, Lock!” He then shudders. “I hope no needles today.” 

“Can’t promise you that, Laurie.” Sherlock cannot help but to look fondly at his son, who scampers off to the exam room. 

***

“Alli-cat!” Laurie chirps from Sherlock’s lap when his nurse in navy blue scrubs comes in. “Popsicle!” He stretches his arms out toward the two wrapped treats she holds. “Popsicle!”

Sherlock has never felt more like a hypocrite when he remarks. “Manners, Laurie mine.” And, he wonders how often does Laurie come here – to know all the nurses who work here. 

Too often.

“Please?” His son adds promptly, all puppy-eyed. 

“Patience, dear.” The blonde-curly haired nurse rips open one of the popsicles and hands Laurie a watermelon popsicle. His son immediately says his thanks. Noticing Sherlock for the first time, she introduces herself – looking startled that he isn’t who she had expected. “I am Allie, one of the nurses who work with Dr. Jones – and I suppose you wouldn’t want a popsicle?”

Ah. Mycroft eats one too when he comes. Sherlock deduces readily. Who is he to decline an old ritual? Best keep things as routine as possible. He takes the offered popsicle and licks at it – fresh watermelon juice… mm. 

“Lock – say thank you!” Laurie elbows him and Sherlock just wants to die laughing. 

Instead Sherlock’s mouth twitches before he mumbles his thanks, and the efficient Allie smiles at him in response befores she takes Laurie’s vitals and asks him a few questions about symptoms – to which Laurie shakes his head solemnly for every one she lists, and then she asks Laurie, while pointing to Sherlock – “Who is he?”

“My Lock!” Laurie exclaims, as Sherlock watches Allie puzzle it out. Ah, goldfish – all so transparent. Mycroft of course comes with Laurie each time – and there’s a decent chunk of Dr. Jones’ patients that are the children of unbonded Omegas and deadbeat Alphas. He can see her ruling out Sherlock as a new paramour – figuring that Laurie and he resemble each other too much by how often her eyes glance at him and then at Laurie – making comparisons. “My Papa!” Laurie then adds for clarification – which really didn’t help at all. 

“Dr. Amanda will come by soon, Laurie – and you are getting so big now!” 

“I – big boy now!” Laurie flexes a bicep, and Allie chuckles and picks up Laurie’s chart – documenting a few things before finally leaving the room. 

“Take photo!” Laurie demands a moment later, he then amends. “Selfie, please – Lock! Send Dad.” 

“Alright – Laurie. We will send your Dad a selfie.” 

Sherlock fumbles in his pockets for his phone, which he finds. He then realizes that Laurie has been extra-demanding ever since they had stepped foot in the clinic – and it’s because his son is nervous (scared) and needs distractions. He presses a reassuring kiss to his son’s cheek. It is in the midst of taking selfies with silly expressions and weird filters that Laurie’s doctor walks in on. 

“Hi Laurie!” Dr. Amanda sits down on the stool when she strides in, and then she gives Sherlock a look of surprise. 

He could see her deductions too. That Mycroft trusts him enough to take their son to an appointment; that Sherlock (as an Alpha) is willing to take his kit to them. 

“He couldn’t make it today.” Sherlock offers, holding his son tighter in his arms. “Other appointments.” 

“Ah. That’s too bad. This is the first time Laurie’s come in with another person –” And then she realizes something. “You are Sherlock Holmes! I thought you looked familiar when I saw you at the hospital. The man who jumped off Bart’s all those years ago, and all the newspapers a month or so ago – proclaiming your return from the dead! So Laurie happened –”

“Before I jumped, yes.” Sherlock nods. “I didn’t know about him until I came back.”

“Came back from…” 

“That’s classified.” Sherlock winks, cutting off the next question she was going to ask. She won’t ask if Mycroft and he are brothers. She knows that Laurie is the product of an incestuous relationship. “It’s complicated. Our relationship. My job. But I am here to stay now.” He says firmly, feeling the gravity of each word of the last sentence. 

The physician smiles brightly at him. “Alright, let’s move on to the doctoring bit.”

***

This is exactly the kind of thing that Sherlock dreads. Crowds. Rowdy children. Goldfish gawking at things they weren’t going to buy. But Laurie exclaims delightedly at every Christmas-themed thing Harrods has to offer – from the window displays (featuring a swinging (real) circus performer to Christmas mice working as Santa’s minions to a forty kilogram gingerbread house à la Hansel and Gretel) and all the Christmas-themed activities indoors. 

Laurie gets antlers painted on his forehead along with a red nose at the face painting station, and insists that Sherlock participate too, so now he is sporting a large sprig of holly on one side of his face, next to his left eye… opting for a more minimally invasive design. Not to mention the line to take pictures with Santa… but Sherlock happily endures everything, remembering how Laurie had looked when they drew blood for labs at the end of the visit to the physician earlier in the day. Resigned and sad, simply holding onto Sherlock’s hand for comfort. Hiding his face in Sherlock’s shirt. No tears. No tantrums. One of (probably a million pokes) he had to endure in his short lifetime. How did Mycroft endure this… alone? When he had been gone? 

“Sherlock!” Someone yells his name in a shocked voice as he looks for something sweet for Laurie and him to share. 

Oh crap. It’s Molly. And he looks absolutely absurd. Laurie had made him buy them both matching Santa hats (which they are both wearing now), not to mention the face paint. He has a bag full of presents (bought on behalf of the ever-so-generous Laurie for everyone). Sherlock had already bought his presents for his son, and had them all wrapped up and stored at Baker Street, so that Laurie wouldn’t stumble upon them by accident.

She looks absolutely flabbergasted. One could pick her jaw off the floor, as she takes in the view, staring dumbly at the mini-version of him perched on his shoulders. 

“Oh my god… you have a kit!” Her eyes are as wide as saucers. She actually looks hurt – and Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint the reason why. It’s multifactorial. “Yet – you still smell the same as you always did… and you couldn’t bother to tell me –”

“It happened after I jumped, Molly.” Sherlock interrupts. “It’s not like I could drop you a card –”

“And you never sought me out after you came back –”

“I was busy.” Sherlock says. “I am sorry, but I’ve been solving Greg’s cases –”

“He’s _ Greg _now?” Molly is looking at him as if he had grown a second head. She then asks rather bitterly. Jealously. “Who is the lucky Omega? I suppose you didn’t bond with her, considering your scent hasn’t changed. Typical –”

“Not now, Molly.” Sherlock stands up straighter, giving her a hard look. “Not in front of my kit.” Laurie is gripping him tighter, no doubt perturbed by the unhappiness that Molly radiates. “And I plan to, you know – bond with my Omega. You know – aside from solving cases, I’ve been trying to make amends. To show my Omega that this is something I want. And learn how to be a parent. Of course, I am grateful for what you’ve done for me all those years ago – don’t get me wrong, but I do have to say that I’ve done nothing to lead you on over the years.” 

She gives a shuddering sigh – on the verge of breaking into tears. Sherlock wonders, if she is actually trying to put herself in the situation of Mycroft? Now that she knows how Sherlock would look and behave with a kit? That there is a soft and doting side to his rough edges for his Omega and kit. 

“And I thought you were seeing someone? Greg told me.”

Molly sniffs and nods, even though her eyes clearly say: _ he isn’t you. _

“What does she have that I don’t have?” A sob escapes her and she reaches for her purse for a tissue. 

“I am gay, Molly. I hope we can still be friends.” Sherlock says, knowing that they would still have to work together for cases, for when their schedules align. 

“Friends?! Ha. I never wanted to be your friend, Sherlock.” She turns away and walks away – presumably to the loo, and Sherlock sighs and shakes his head. 

He sincerely hopes that she would be over him at some point, and perhaps knowing that he is taken now could help with that. But perhaps, it had been easier for her when Sherlock hadn’t been with anyone, or had shown no interest in typical Alpha inclinations; then she could just tell herself that Sherlock is beyond all the sins of the flesh. 

“Who was that, Lock?” Laurie asks from above.

“Someone I work with, Laurie mine. Like Uncle Greg. Don’t worry your head over it. Now – do you still want dessert?”

***

“You had a busy day, Sherlock.” 

Mycroft murmurs as he crawls into bed after a shower, looking adoringly at his Alpha. Nothing made an Omega’s ovaries explode more than seeing pictures of their Alpha and kit doing things together, and Mycroft had been gifted with delightful selfies, short videos and pictures from Sherlock via text all day long from their adventures. 

His Alpha hadn’t even bothered washing the holly off his face – which is embellished with silver and glittery paint. Mycroft has a holy horror of sparkles getting everywhere – but somehow seeing that simple Christmas decor painted over his brother’s cheekbone does things to him. Knowing that their kit had coerced him into getting it. Sherlock probably didn’t put up much resistance at all. If any. His chest swells with a warmth that is becoming more common in recent days.

“Should I get the hat too, brother? Or would you prefer the reindeer antlers? I draw the line at the red nose.” Sherlock turns to him, amused. “Christmas fetish?”

“Oh dear god, no.” Mycroft crawls closer, moving to straddle his already naked Alpha. Sherlock sleeps in the nude more days than not, feeling comfortable with Mycroft seeing his scars outside of sex. Another victory. “More like a fetish for Alphas who love their kits – to the point where they are willing to look silly doing so.” He reaches over to stroke over the painted flesh with his finger, before kissing his brother, both of them sighing contentedly into the kiss.

“I also have those professionally taken shots of Laurie and I with Santa.” Sherlock confesses and Mycroft could only imagine his silently suffering brother waiting in line to get those taken. 

“You are a man of eternal delight, brother mine. Although I do wish we were all together for those photographs. As a –”

“Family.” Sherlock reaches over to bring Mycroft closer to him. They share a fond look with all the knowledge that they both want this, before losing themselves into another bout of snogging.


	19. Chapter 19

**XIX.**

Sherlock has no idea why he is so nervous. He is walking up Baker Street which is festively dusted with a tasteful amount of snow. His large hand grips Laurie’s smaller one. 

Ah. This is the first time he’s bringing his kit back to his humble abode, and Mrs. Hudson is probably in at this time of day. Rather like a son bringing his kit to see his grandmother. 

Laurie is skipping about without a care in the world. His mitt-covered hands grab at chunks of snow, trying to shape them into snowballs but failing. 

They soon arrive. Sherlock fishes for the keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. Laurie looks fascinated at the dimly lit interior of the building, but doesn’t step in.

“Go on, Laurie mine. Dry your boots on the mat. That’s a good lad.” Sherlock smiles fondly as his son jumps onto the welcome mat and scrapes the soles of his boots against it.

“Where are we – Lock?” Laurie asks.

“This is where I live.” Sherlock explains.

“But – you live with us!” 

Their conversation is interrupted when Mrs. Hudson steps out. There is an expression of wondrous joy on her face when her eyes fall upon the kit. 

“Oh, Sherlock! He looks just like you! Hello there, Laurie!” 

She squats down and Laurie looks at her warily. Sherlock gives a nod, and Laurie shyly says. “Hullo.”

“This is Mrs. Hudson, Laurie – she’s…” Sherlock gulps but continues. It’s only the truth. Really. “Been like a Mummy to me over the years. Say Merry Christmas, dearest mine.” 

“Merry Christ-mas, Mrs. Hud-son!” Laurie chirps.

Mrs. Hudson looks like she’s about to cry. “Oh, my dear boys! A very Merry Christmas indeed! Please – do come in!” 

***

“So, you fold it like this, Laurie.” 

Sherlock is showing his son how to wrap the gifts that they had picked out together at Mrs. Hudson’s coffee table. Laurie wrinkles his forehead in concentration and focuses on forming nice creases with the night-sky themed wrapping paper that he had picked out. 

“You think Daddy like this, Lock?” 

Laurie looks at the box that contains a handsome blue tie with faint diagonal lines and white dots and two illustrated books:  _ How NOT to be a Crotchety Old Man _ and  _ The Enormous Crocodile _ . The books are more for Laurie to read to Mycroft. And Sherlock hopes Mycroft would find the former title funny rather than develop an urge to strangle his Alpha. Ah. But alas this is how he lives dangerously these days. There is a card in an envelope taped to the side, featuring Laurie’s attempts at penmanship and a drawing. 

“Of course he will.” Sherlock smiles brightly, ripping off a piece of tape for Laurie for Naomi’s gift box. 

“Oh you two – working so hard!” Mrs. Hudson comes, bringing a plate full of Christmas biscuits of all sorts. “I baked these yesterday, eat up, dearies.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” 

Laurie’s eyes are sparkling – as they do when any sort of dessert he likes gets put in front of him. He picks up a gingerbread man, and takes a bite of its head. Sherlock picks up a ginger nut and happily eats it in one bite. 

“Are you coming by at Christmas?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

Sherlock shakes his head regretfully. He could see the loneliness in her eyes – even though Mrs. Hudson had her sister and her bridge girls – he realizes that she’s been missing well – him. 

“I am going away tomorrow with My – Omega.” He quickly amends, musing that the one glass of sherry that Mrs. Hudson had poured for him was already going to his head. And he hadn’t even finished it yet. 

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t notice the slip. It might be a good time to give up the alcoholic drinks as Mycroft had done. 

“Ah. A romantic Christmas getaway!” She looks wistful. “I hope you three have a good time. I take it then you are all doing Christmas early.”

“At least the gift-giving.” Sherlock starts wrapping some of Laurie’s other gifts – a box to Anthea, and another to Greg. He will let Laurie do Mycroft’s after he finishes Naomi’s. “I do have a little something for you, Mrs. H.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, Sherlock!” She is nevertheless touched when Sherlock hands her a small wrapped box containing a necklace that complements a new ring that she had acquired a few months back. “I do have something for little Laurie.”

“You don’t have to –” Sherlock says helplessly as Mrs. Hudson disappears and returns with a large, beautifully crocheted turquoise and tan coloured giraffe with dark beady eyes. She had obviously made it herself – upon learning that Sherlock had a kit weeks ago. 

Around its neck is a ribbon with a card that says:  _ With love, Mrs. Hudson.  _

Laurie looks wide-eyed at the offering as if to say  _ ‘For me?’.  _ When Mrs. Hudson presents the giraffe – he immediately hugs the stuffed animal with its large hooves against his chest. Sherlock knows that Laurie has a fine collection of stuffed animals, but this one has evidently became his favourite – next to Wolfie and the little plush seal named Seal that had been his buddy since birth. 

“Thank you, Mrs. H.” Sherlock says for Laurie, who is too speechless to move. “It’s a lovely gift. It must have taken long to make!”

“Nonsense.” She beams. “I will have one made for your next kit too.”

Sherlock blinks dumbly – and Mrs. Hudson laughs all too knowingly. “Oh, I know Alphas and Omegas. The bonding heat.” She nods knowledgeably. “More likely to be with kit than not!” 

His hand settles for stroking Laurie’s curls, as his mouth has nothing to say. 

“Oh, Sherlock – you are a good parent, I can see that. You will be fine.” Mrs. Hudson says reassuringly. “Your Omega is lucky to have you. Oh – my dear boy, so grown up!” She sniffs and walks back toward the kitchen. 

His phone vibrates.

_ Are you two going to come home soon? MH _

_ Or are you having too much fun? MH _

_ I am leaving the office now. We could go out and eat. MH _

_ Anything you want, Mycroft. We are at Baker Street. SH _

_ Alright. I will tell Anthea to reserve us a seat to a nice Christmas Dinner. She will text you the details. MH _

_ Black tie? SH _

_ Probably. But you’ve never really cared about such things… MH _

_ I will dress up if you do. SH _

_ Will you pick us up? I have presents that need to be brought back home. SH _

Sherlock had hesitated while typing out home. But it’s true now. He spends more of his time at Mycroft’s house than here at his flat. He’s Laurie’s Lock and Mycroft’s Alpha and lover. Life had changed so much since he had returned from his arduous mission around the world. 

_ Of course. I will have the car come pick the two of you up. MH _

_ Thank you, lover mine. SH _

_ See you soon, darlings. And the pleasure is always mine. MH _

***

Mycroft doesn’t think he’s ever felt so content. He has his arm lazily curled up around Sherlock’s shoulders. His belly is fit to burst – for the holidays is where he really indulges. The meal hadn’t been as highbrow as Sherlock had thought it would be – Mycroft had wanted to make sure that Laurie had a great if not memorable time, so he had decided to have Anthea book a table at the Grand Duchess – a barge moored on the Grand Union Canal at Paddington Central. 

Laurie, of course, had loved it, and had decided to change his lifelong ambition from a Lego Master Builder to a bloodthirsty pirate who indulged in Fish & Chips everyday. 

Where had he heard that before? 

He turns to Sherlock who is still dressed in his fancy suit. Mm. Mycroft had bought his brother this suit before he had left England to finish off Moriarty’s operations – and Sherlock had probably never worn it till now. The tie is still hanging (albeit loosened) around his neck. 

How delectable he looks! 

Unable to resist the temptation, Mycroft gently grasps the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls in him for a delicious kiss – flavoured by all the seafood and the chocolate and almond torte with ice cream that had been shared between them for dessert. 

There is a melancholy to Sherlock though, contrasting Mycroft’s Christmas(?) happiness. Even though they aren’t bonded, Mycroft can easily pick up Sherlock’s moods these days. 

“What is it, Lock?” 

“I… it’s nothing. Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs. 

“It’s something though.” Mycroft turns his head to brush his cheek against Sherlock’s. 

“I was just thinking… of Mrs. Hudson. She’s… so lonely these days. I mean – she doesn’t say anything other than to inquire about when I am at Baker Street. And she made Laurie that lovely giraffe that he’s refused to put down.” 

Mycroft can see Laurie, eagerly shaking all the boxes under the elaborately Christmas tree – trying to figure out what is in all the boxes that are intended for him. In his lap is the handmade giraffe – and it’s evident that Sherlock’s landlady thinks a great deal about Sherlock and Laurie. 

He doesn’t know what Mrs. Hudson would feel if she ever found out who Sherlock’s Omega really is. Gregory had taken it well, but she had harboured some dislike toward him over the years. But then again, she loved Sherlock. And Laurie. 

That could sway her old heart. 

Alas. It’s hard to say. 

“Yeah. I thought of all that. Of telling her. I don’t know.” Sherlock sighs. “It’s alright – Mycroft. I will be okay.” He then adds, wanting to change the mood. “Let’s open one of the presents. Laurie?” Sherlock calls out.

Their little boy turns to look at them. 

“Why don’t we open the present you bought for Daddy? Bring it here.” Sherlock continues.

“Present!” Laurie looks excited and immediately grabs the somewhat haphazardly wrapped gift and his ‘Giraffe-y’ in the other arm. “Daddy! Open! For you! From me!” 

“Oh – Laurie. You didn’t have to get me a present!” Mycroft has never felt warmer when he reaches down to pick up his son to place him into his lap. 

“Lock help me!” Laurie says brightly. “We buy for Uncle Greg, Naomi and Anthea!” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft turns to give his brother another peck. 

God. Had his brother really changed this much over the course of a few months? Or had his time away really made him grow up? It’s hard to say. But Mycroft has never loved his brother more than at this moment. His eyes meet Sherlock’s and he can’t help but to lean in for another kiss. 

“Open, Daddy!” Laurie looks at his parents with exasperation. “Kiss later!”

Mycroft chuckles when he finally breaks apart from Sherlock. “So impatient – Laurie mine.” He then turns again to his brother. “I am sorry I didn’t get you a present on behalf of –”

“Mycroft. No. It’s not necessary. I mean how many years have you given me presents and I’ve given you nothing but –”

“Sherlock. My dear. That’s all in the past. You were young and rebellious. Now let’s see what this is, hm?” Mycroft shakes the box as Laurie had been doing earlier. “Is it an elephant?”

“No! Dad! No way we could carry that home!” Laurie giggles. 

“Harrods doesn’t carry elephants.” Sherlock says with a straight face. 

“Oh, what a pity.” Mycroft shakes his head.

“We could steal a baby from zoo!” Laurie suggests.

“But, Laurie mine – elephants have Mummies and Daddies too.” Sherlock explains.

“Oh. Then best not. They would be sad.” Laurie deduces. “Guess again!”

Their son is too pure for this world. 

Mycroft shakes his head before makes a few more silly deductions. He then finally unwraps the starry paper with care. Unlike Sherlock who likes to shred the wrapping paper of his presents, Mycroft likes to preserve the paper. He carefully picks and pulls at the tape which had always driven his brother nuts – although today Sherlock only looks at him indulgently. After the paper had all come off, he carefully folds it up and puts it to the side. 

There is an envelope attached to the top of the box, and in painstakingly formed letters it states:  _ For Daddy. From your Laurie! _

“Mm… Laurie – you have better handwriting than Lock.” Mycroft says with pride, admiring the handwriting. 

Wow. Laurie knows how to read and write now. He didn’t expect that. Then he sighs, realizing that Laurie was of the age that he would have to consider sending him to school in the next year. Getting Laurie into a prestigious school that would challenge his intellect isn’t an issue, but he wonders if he ought to hold off on it. He isn’t ready to lose Laurie for a large chunk of the day on a regular basis. If the assassin nonsense with Magnussen could be taken care of before then… but then again, there will always be threats that would affect their family. 

And unlike Sherlock and himself when they had been children, Laurie  _ liked  _ interacting with other people. The goldfish usually loved him back. Sherlock had always been awful at tolerating people he couldn’t stand (which was probably 99.9% of the human population if not more) while Mycroft had learned how to play the game of maneuvering through social circles. 

“I did teach him how to write.” Sherlock pouts, and Mycroft immediately leans to the side to kiss his cheek. 

“I know how to write my name!” Laurie says excitedly. “Daddy – open gift now!”

“First I am going to look at the card.” Mycroft finally frees the card from the envelope.

The exterior is a dark green with flowers all over, and gilt lettering stating:  _ Christmas is really all about love. _ Carefully he opens it, and he can see more of Laurie’s handwriting.

_ Dear Daddy! _

_ Merry Xmas! I love you!  _

_ I can’t wait to go to Paris!  _

_ Your Laurie  _

At the bottom of the card, is a childish drawing of Mycroft and Sherlock and Laurie in the centre, and there is a cat on the side – evident by its whiskers. At the bottom, it says:

_ PS: Can we get a pet?  _

Mycroft shakes his head grimly. “I am surprised there isn’t a menagerie of animals in this house already.” 

Well. Honestly he is. His brother has a very hard time denying Laurie things. 

Sherlock loved dogs. Laurie loved every single animal and plant that he’s ever come across. With the exception of mosquitoes. That included creatures like the naked mole rat, the blobfish and the aye-aye. If Laurie could have a pet dinosaur – he would be all over that. A cat wouldn’t be too difficult to keep. Mycroft reflects, but they should talk about this some more. 

He then moves onto the box itself, and lifts up the lid. The silk tie isn’t from Harrods. It is from Savile Row. He has an image of Sherlock and Laurie surrounded by fancy clothes and the two of them solemnly debating which tie to get for him. Sherlock had likely narrowed it down to a few, and told Laurie to make the final decision. It’s lovely and has already made its way to Mycroft’s top favourite ties – just because his two favourite people had picked it for him. 

A groan escapes him when he sees the title of the first book.  _ Sherlock. _ He gives his brother the side-eye and he gets an innocent look in response. 

The second book would be one that Laurie would love. Mycroft himself is rather partial to the works of Ronald Dahl. 

His favourite part of his Christmas present though is that he could imagine all the effort that had been put into it. From going out and buying everything to Sherlock patiently teaching Laurie how to wrap a present and write a card (he could easily tell that Laurie practiced writing what he wanted to say in the card elsewhere before Sherlock had thought that his efforts were good enough for a Christmas card).

“Read!” Laurie demands. “Please?”

Mycroft picks up one of the books and mutters darkly for Sherlock’s ears only. “Let’s see which one of us is closer to becoming a crotchety old man.” 

Turning the page, he starts reading. 

***

“I love you.” Sherlock says when Mycroft emerges from the loo, all freshly showered and shaved. “My gorgeous Omega.” 

“Mm… not your old crotchety Omega, hm?” Mycroft isn’t too keen on letting Sherlock pass so easily. 

“Nope. Only hot nubile Omegas here.” Sherlock smiles fondly at his grumpy brother. “Now come up here so I can kiss you.” 

Mycroft shakes his head. Is his brother blind? 

The way Sherlock goes about compliments make him feel like some pretty young slip of an Omega who had just presented. Nevertheless, he swings himself onto the bed and straddles his brother where they share a fond kiss. His brother’s hands are against the sides of Mycroft’s head, and their noses are brushing against the other. He could taste the honey tequila that Sherlock had had at the restaurant and he delights in it – knowing this is the only way he’s going to be sampling alcoholic beverages for a while. His brother had offered to abstain with him, but Mycroft had shaken his head. 

Why should they both have to suffer? 

“I love you too.” Mycroft lets one of his hands caress Sherlock’s cheek. 

There is still a bit of green and glitter from the face paint that Sherlock had gotten a few days ago. Mycroft uses his finger to get more of it off. His brother sighs and leans into his touch. Mycroft always enjoys looking at Sherlock. Especially in bed, as he is usually naked as he is now – the quilt barely hiding his partially erect cock. 

“We are going to have a very busy day tomorrow.” Mycroft says after another decadent kiss. 

“I know. But we should definitely take advantage of the time now and practice you know. Before your heat. There will be very little opportunities for extracurricular activities when we go to Paris.” Sherlock then asks. “And – is Anthea taking Laurie for New Year’s?” 

“Yes. She will meet us in Paris on the 28th or 29th and take Laurie to Spain to meet her parents.” Mycroft says as he tries not to think what it means that Laurie will meet his godmother’s parents first before his actual grandparents. “We will spend a few days on our own. How does that sound, lover mine?”

“Lovely. Although I will miss our Laurie.”

“So will I.” Mycroft feels a sense of both dread and unease. “It will be the longest time I will be apart from him.”

“Anthea won’t let anything harm him.” Sherlock reassures him. 

“I know. But, you know – Lock – he’s my –”

“I know.” Sherlock presses another tender kiss against Mycroft’s lips. 

God. He kind of does know. How sick Laurie had been for most of his life. Mycroft’s constant worry for their little son. How precious the little boy is to both his brother and himself. How Mycroft must dread the impending separation! “He’s my sunshine.” 

Mycroft’s lips curve slightly in a smile. “Indeed he is. I never understood where he gets his disposition from.”

“Certainly not from us.” Sherlock agrees. “While we scheme and manipulate, Laurie will be making people eat out of his hand without even knowing it.”

“Oh, little brother mine – I have need of your cock today.” Mycroft’s voice turns silky as he presses Sherlock firmly down against the bed, letting both their groins come into contact with each other. 

***

“Daddy! Lock! Wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas! Well. Not really. But close enough! Come on! Come on!” Laurie pounces energetically into their bed.

Maybe they need a lock to their room. Sherlock rubs at his tired eyes and takes a peek at his phone. 

5:30 AM. 

Really? 

Damn it! 

This is an ungodly hour! 

“Laurie, it’s not even six!” Sherlock moans and turns into his quilts. “Greg and Naomi aren’t coming till nine, dear one. And no presents are going to be opened before that.” 

“Dad said you sleep little.” Laurie crawls into the gap between Sherlock and Mycroft.

“Well, I am getting older and more crotchety, Laurie mine.” Sherlock lets his son snuggle into his arms to scent him for a minute. “If you can be quiet and let your Daddy sleep just a bit longer – I will let you have one of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.” 

“Really?” Laurie is already interested in the offer. He had already modulated his voice into a whisper. 

“Yes, really. But you can’t tell Daddy – okay?” 

Sherlock reluctantly rolls out of bed at Laurie’s serious nod. The things he does for Mycroft. His brother always could use the extra sleep. He grabs his little boy’s hand after swinging him out of bed and walks him out of the bedroom – where his sleeping beauty of an Omega is still snoring quietly behind them. 

***

“Can I have a gingerbread man, Lock?” Laurie tugs at Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms in the kitchen. 

“You are ruining your breakfast, Laurie. Daddy won’t be happy.” Sherlock bends down to wipe away at the sugar cookie crumbs that are on Laurie’s face. “I can get you a small glass of milk, though.” 

“Okay!” Laurie takes the compromise and eagerly goes to the fridge. 

Laurie is too short to reach the handle, although he does open the freezer and stares longingly at the tub of fancy chocolate ice cream. Sherlock knows that this particular tub of ice cream is for Mycroft’s hands only – and he would never dare get caught between an Omega and their sweets. Not even his bratty pre-Fall self would be stupid enough to do so. Sometimes Mycroft would deign to share a bite or two with Laurie, but that’s about it. If Sherlock wanted some, he would have to go buy his own. 

“We better not look at the temptation, Laurie. It would be a –”

“Bit not good, yes?” Laurie obediently shuts the door, and Sherlock grabs the 2% milk. 

“Yes. Indeed. A bit not good.” 

Sherlock smiles, reaching for a colourful Christmas-themed plastic cup. He pours a generous amount, and puts the carton back. Taking a large sip himself, he licks his lips after and passes the cup down to Laurie. 

They should set the table for the Christmas brunch that Mycroft had bought the night before. Laurie and Naomi would enjoy it – pretending that they are a Lord and Lady at Buckingham or somewhere – eating with the best silverware, plates and fancy manners. Sherlock shakes his head – it’s all harmless fun. 

He could keep his opinion of the Royalty to himself. 

“Set the table?” Laurie inquires. “Can I… can I help?” 

“How many people will be eating brunch, Laurie?” 

“Hm… there’s me, Lock, Daddy, Naomi, Uncle Greg and Anthea!” Laurie counts with his fingers. “Six!” 

“Very good. Which tablecloth do you think Daddy wants to use, hm?” 

Sherlock opens another drawer and drags a stool with his foot so that Laurie could step up and see. His son grabs at a red damask tablecloth so quickly that it unfolds and covers him partially.

“Ooh, Lock – I am the red ghost! Oooh! Let me go scare Daddy!”

“Come over here, you little rascal!” Sherlock runs after Laurie – who is hightailing it out the kitchen with his little legs. “Before you trip over that!” 

Mycroft would kill him if that cloth gets dirty! Or if Laurie breaks his neck on the stairs! 

***

Fortunately by the time the doorbell rings, Laurie is unharmed, Mycroft had been allowed to ‘sleep in’, the table had been set and the delicious brunch rewarmed and ready to be devoured. Sherlock opens the door to welcome Anthea who comes bearing gifts including a large pitcher of winter sangria (the wine replaced with chai tea). Laurie runs to hug her leg. 

Christmas greetings are exchanged, presents are dropped under the tree and they all make idle chit-chat while Laurie seems to vibrate with an unsuppressable amount of excitement. He looks every few seconds at the door, waiting for his best friend to show up. 

The Lestrades finally show up – fifteen minutes later – and Laurie and Naomi are eagerly examining each present in the massive stack under the tree while having a wild discussion on what the boxes could all contain. Mycroft may have heard the word elephant mentioned at least once in the conversation. He shakes his head in amusement while he fondly surveys the scene in his living room from the side of the fireplace. 

Never had he imagined that he would be hosting Christmas. 

Laurie and he had always spent the holidays with each other and no one else – and as fun as he had tried to make it for the both of them – this time of the year had always been difficult. On top of missing his brother (his Alpha), he has had to tell lie after lie to his parents, giving them reasons as to why he couldn’t come, and why they couldn’t come visit him. 

Sometimes he had pretended that he was abroad and was doing important work on behalf of the crown, and for others – he had fabricated domestic governmental emergencies. Sherlock had already called their parents, telling them that they had another international mission to undertake – and Mycroft could tell by the tone of the conversation that their parents were far from pleased. 

He couldn’t blame them – they had seen none of their children since the summer of Sherlock’s death-defying leap of Bart’s and that had been well – four years ago. 

And here, he couldn’t imagine being apart from his kit for more than a day! 

He had fantasized during those holidays. Of how his day-to-day life would look like when Sherlock came back. Of how his holidays would look. Waking up in Sherlock’s Alpha arms while being surrounded by his masculine scent. Opening presents with their kit under the tree. Of inside jokes and gentle teasing. 

Really, of love. 

Hoping desperately that his brother would return it at some point in the future.

If he had managed to return back to him. 

Someone taps his shoulder and gives him a wine glass full of Anthea’s sangria. 

_ Sherlock.  _

“It’s quite good. Surprisingly.” Sherlock explains, interrupting his thoughts down memory lane. “Cranberries, a bit of citrus, a sprinkling of cinnamon – oh Mycroft –” He pauses and whispers quietly. “Are you crying? God. My…” Sherlock gently tugs at the sleeve of Mycroft’s shirt and takes him to the quieter dining room for some privacy. “Oh, My – the past Christmases must have been so hard.” Sherlock says empathetically.

All Mycroft could do was set his sangria on the dining table and wrap his arms around his Sherlock. He sniffs at his brother’s scent gland deriving some much needed comfort. It had been slightly disappointing to wake up without Lock warming his bed, but he knows (or rather vaguely remembers) that Laurie had barged into their room with all the exuberance of a Christmas-crazed toddler in the early morning. Sherlock had selflessly distracted their kit for a bit, so that Mycroft could sleep. 

His Alpha kisses the top of his head, and it is heaven – really to be in this moment of time. 

It is worth all the hardship to get here. 

“You thought of me during Christmases past?” Sherlock’s voice rumbles gently in Mycroft’s ears. 

“Of course, brother mine. I thought of you every single day.” Mycroft whispers – letting himself be vulnerable. 

“I did too. Whenever there was downtime. When I could afford to be me.” Sherlock sighs as he feels himself go limp from all the chemicals released from Mycroft nuzzling at his scent gland, He adds firmly. “I love you.” 

Sherlock bends down to inhale Mycroft's scent, augmented by his cologne. He can’t quite reach Mycroft’s scent gland from this position, but it would have to do. 

***

Brunch was delicious. A salmon and bagel board with all the trimmings. A sausage and kale hash. A warm porridge with beetroot, apple and cranberry compote, finished off with toasted hazelnuts. Freshly refried crumpets with a burnt honey butter finish. An assortment of desserts which made the kits temporarily forget that there was a massive pile of presents waiting for them under the large Christmas tree in the living room. 

For his first Christmas meal (despite most of it being ordered from a fancy caterer) Mycroft thought that it was a success. 

Laurie and Naomi had both collapsed in despair when Sherlock had quipped. “Let’s do the dishes first, then presents.” 

Mycroft had grinned, and then he had mercifully said. “Let’s put them out of their misery.”

So, everyone had gone back out to the living room and sat down in a circle on the large Persian carpet that was located next to the tree. 

Following an old Lestrade-family tradition, the kits are now distributing out everyone’s presents. Sherlock smiles at his own pile of gifts. Of course, most of the boxes (especially the large ones) had been for the kits. Sherlock finds himself wondering how Laurie would tackle his presents. Would he be like Mycroft and open everything with meticulous care? Or would Laurie be more like him and rip everything to shreds? 

When Mycroft gives the go ahead for everyone to open their presents – thank bloody good that they aren’t going to go around in a circle and open each present one by one – Laurie and Naomi attack the boxes with glee. 

Ribbons, tape and bits of wrapping paper fly everywhere. 

Ah. Laurie is a shredder just like himself. Sherlock holds off on opening his own, preferring to watch his kit’s facial expressions of absolute delight as he discovers each one of his gifts. He may or may not have filmed the scene with his phone. 

A set of fancy-shaped crayons that look like gemstones, a boxful of wooden blocks with a castle theme and a large set of chapter books that might just be at the limits of Laurie’s capabilities:  _ Magic Tree House _ from Anthea, the board game  _ Outfoxed!  _ and  _ Uno Attack _ (a game of  _ Uno _ with a machine that spits cards out; Sherlock already foresees that Laurie will enjoy shooting cards with it outside the context of an actual game) from Greg and Naomi and boxes upon boxes of regular Lego, a few robotic and science kits, a set of kid-sized gardening supplies and various other games, books and toys from both Mycroft and himself. 

There’s also a box full of new clothes, but aside from a blue t-shirt with the classic space logo from Lego – Laurie doesn’t pay it too much attention.

Sherlock shares a smile with his brother when Laurie puts the clothing to the side and focuses on everything else. Kits are so predictable. 

Naomi gives Laurie a big hug when she unwraps her present from him – a realistic shiny red mini-guitar with nylon strings that she’s always wanted with flash cards and an app that would help her learn. Sherlock had warned Greg beforehand what they had gotten her, and Greg (the old-school rock lover) could only laugh and say:  _ At least it is not the drums! _

Anthea had gotten him chocolate (which might be poisoned, or give him a horrible bout of diarrhea). Or perhaps, so addictive that Sherlock would get fat. She is a known chocolate fiend who is capable of playing a long game. 

Who knows! 

There are pairs of high-quality socks from Greg. And from his brother – Sherlock smiles at the new top-of-the-line laptop that already had the bloatware removed and some nifty technology that would be helpful for his day job installed.

“Thank you, Mycroft. It’s exactly what I need.” Sherlock turns to give his brother a kiss. 

“Thank you for the cufflinks and the mini zen garden, little brother.” Mycroft eagerly kisses back. “But really, all I wanted was you.”

“You have me. Mycroft. Always.” Sherlock replies back fondly. 


End file.
